ige 


THE  TIGER'S  COAT 


"I  came  to  you  in  a  storm — do  you  remember?' 


THE  TIGER'S  COAT 


By 
ELIZABETH   DEJEANS 

M 

Author  of 
The  House  of  Thane 
The  Life  Builders,  etc 


With  Illustrations  by 

ARTHUR  I,  KELLER 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1917 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


PRE89  OF 

BRAUNWORTH   &  CO. 

BOOK   MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,   N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  A  Disguise 1 

II  Two  Financiers — and  a  Stray 7 

III  MacAllister  Questions 19 

IV  Soldiers  of  Fortune 25 

V  The  House  on  the  Hill 35 

VI  Mrs.  Mendall 37 

VII  The  Studio 42 

VIII  "So  Be  It  Then" 50 

IX  The  Call  of  the  Primitive 58 

X  Marie  Ogilvie 60 

XI  "A  Kinswoman  of  Mine" 65 

XII  A  Medieval  Mystery 69 

XIII  Crossed  Swords 73 

XIV  Getting  Away  from  Boredom 82 

XV  Surmises 88 

XVI  The  Hint  of  the  Dusky 91 

XVII  The  Wildcat  and  the  Panther  .....  98 

XVIII  "But  I  Please  You?" 108 

XIX  A  Cataclysm 114 

XX  :<What's  Done  Is  Done" 120 

XXI  A  Wife  at  Fault 131 

XXII  Mendall  Gains  a  Model .  135 

XXIII  An  Unexpected  Visitor 144 

XXIV  Marie  Scores 150 

XXV  Unease 155 

XXVI  MacAllister  Gets  His  Way 162 

XXVII  An  Unconventional  Procedure 172 

XXVIII  The  Questionable  Woman 181 

XXIX  A  Bit  of  Bad  News 188 

XXX  Mrs.  Mendall  Acts        199 

XXXI  An  Ultimatum 207 

XXXII  A  Decision 213 

M±819o 


CONTENTS-Continued 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXIII  Marie  Charms  Laclasse 217 

XXXIV  The  Game  of  Defiance 226 

XXXV  A  Delilah  on  Canvas 235 

XXXVI  Very  Naturally  a  Woman 241 

XXXVII  The  Costume  Dance 250 

XXXVIII  "You  Know  Me  Not  at  All" 257 

XXXIX  La  De  La  Guarda 264 

XL  They  None  of  Them  Spoke 272 

XLI  Mrs.  Mendall  Tells  a  Secret 276 

XLII  Storm  Clouds        286 

XLIII  Beneath  the  Tiger's  Coat 291 

XLIV  And  With  Her  Went  Inspiration    ....  301 

XLV  The  Meeting 304 

XLVI  "Just  Love" 309 

XLVII  The  Truth  Lay  Between  Them      ....  322 

XLVIII  The  Battle 328 

XLIX  A  Silent  House 338 

L  The  Yellow  Streak 340 

LI  "I'll  Send  for  Her  Then" 351 

Lll  An  Advanced  Woman 354 

LIII  Mendall  Follows 361 

LIV  A  Possibility 366 

LV  A  Race  with  the  Wind 376 

LVI  Suspense 385 

LVII  What  Did  He  Mean  to  Do? 393 

LVIII  The  Show  City 404 

LIX  "If  Ye'll  Only  Have  It  So"    ......  409 

LX  Just  All  Woman 419 


THE  TIGER'S  COAT 


THE  TIGER'S  COAT 


A  DISGUISE 

THE  flaring,  wavering  light  turned  the  foggy  dim- 
ness of  the  room  into  golden  indecision. 
Some  bygone  tenant,  possibly  the  first  French  land- 
lord of  the  old  house — a  residence  before  the  wharves 
had  shut  out  its  view  of  the  North  River — had  hung 
the  walls  in  yellow,  an  imported  paper  embossed  with 
huge  palm  leaves  and  roses.  In  some  following  evacu- 
ation and  retenanting  the  heavy  Victorian  furniture 
had  disappeared  and  been  replaced  by  flimsy  golden 
oak  of  Grand  Rapids  make  which  had  been  battered  by 
hard  usage  into  early  decrepitude;  the  worn  flooring 
was  covered  with  dull  yellow  oilcloth;  the  Venetian 
blinds  had  been  removed  and  the  windows  curtained 
with  shades  on  patent  rollers,  yellow  shades  long  since 
darkened  by  fog  and  smoke  to  the  prevailing  dull 
gold  tint. 

All  was  dingily  golden,  even  the  girl  who  sat  beside 
a  small  huddle  of  belongings  unwrapped  from  an  old 
yellow  and  black  Mexican  blanket  which  she  had  drawn 

1 


2  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

to  the  spot  where  the  light  from  the  gas-jet  fell  strong- 
est. The  mass  of  crisply  tangled  hair  which  was  piled 
on  her  head  showed  threads  of  gold,  black  hair  shot 
with  gold.  Her  black  brows  and  lashes  also  more  than 
hinted  of  bronze.  The  pallor  of  her  thin  face  and 
arMs,  thin  almost  to  emaciation,  had  the  same  jaun- 
diced tint. 

With  unskilful  fingers  she  was  laboriously  hemming 
a  frayed  skirt,  a  hem  awkwardly  turned,  which  short- 
ened the  skirt  by  six  inches,  the  meagerness  of  the  hud- 
dled heap  at  her  side  and  the  blanket  that  wrapped  her 
against  the  April  chill  eloquently  suggesting  that  she 
was  tampering  with  the  only  street  garment  she  pos- 
sessed. 

She  worked  steadily  and  painfully,  coughing  now 
and  then,  sounds  she  tried  to  smother,  for  it  was  the 
stillest  hour  of  the  night.  The  midnight  traffic  was 
over  and  the  early  trucking  to  the  wharves  not  yet 
begun,  so  every  sound  was  harshly  defined.  The  river 
noises  were  distinct,  an  occasional  whining  siren,  some 
small  river  craft  nosing  its  way  along  through  the  fog. 
At  long  intervals  the  whir  of  a  Twenty-third  Street 
car,  two  blocks  away,  dominated  the  never  entirely 
deadened  growl  of  New  York. 

When  her  task  was  over,  the  girl  rose  quickly  and 
with  a  swift  stealthy  energy,  quite  at  variance  with  the 
awkwardness  writh  which  she  had  handled  scissors  and 
needle,  she  jerked  the  blanket  from  her  shoulders  and 
flinging  it  upon  the  tousled  folding  bed,  closed  the 
bed.    The  only  mirror  the  room  contained  was  framed 


A   DISGUISE  3 

in  the  bed;  in  it  she  could  survey  the  thing  she  had 
done. 

She  put  the  skirt  on  over  her  rough  cotton  che- 
mise and  short  petticoat,  then  with  frowning  brows 
studied  intently  the  abbreviated  skirt.  It  scarcely 
reached  to  her  shoetops,  clumsy  shoes  with  heavy  soles, 
certainly  sizes  too  large  for  her  feet,  if  they  were  as 
slimly  proportioned  as  her  hands.  She  scowled  at  the 
shoes,  and  at  her  shortened  skirt,  and  up  at  the  blink- 
ing gas-jet,  a  look  of  scorn  and  disgust  to  which 
her  amber  glance  gave  a  touch  of  animal  ferocity,  for 
the  gold  that  in  hair  and  brows  and  skin  was  a  com- 
mingling, showed  unalloyed  in  her  eyes ;  her  eyes  were 
frankly  yellow. 

She  gazed  at  her  reflection,  and  her  full  lip  curled. 
"Refugee,"  she  said  softly,  in  Italian,  and  played  with 
the  word,  repeating  it  in  Spanish,  "Refugiada"  Then 
glancing  down  at  her  short  skirt  her  lip  quivered  and 
bent  in  a  smile.  "Pauvre  petite"  she  murmured  in 
perfectly  enunciated  French,  and  began  to  laugh  softly, 
a  shaking  of  her  thin  shoulders  that  brought  on  an 
agonized  fit  of  coughing  which  she  smothered  by  drop- 
ping to  the  floor  and  burying  her  face  in  the  folds  of 
the  skirt  that  had  aroused  her  laughter. 

The  paroxysm  shook  and  twisted  her  slight  body, 
bent  and  tortured  it.  It  took  her  a  long  time  to  get 
her  breath  after  the  attack  of  strangling,  but  when  she 
recovered,  though  weak  and  panting  from  exhaustion, 
the  sardonic  spirit  within  her  was  still  undaunted,  for 
she  exclaimed,  in  correct  though  softly  accented  Eng.- 


4  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

lish,  "Devil  take  this  abominable  climate!"  She 
seemed  to  feel  a  certain  satisfaction  in  her  repertoire  of 
languages;  she  grimaced  at  her  reflection,  her  nar- 
rowed eyes  agleam.  The  thing  was  enacted  while  still 
sitting  on  the  floor,  collecting  strength  to  rise. 

But  the  interlude  over,  she  returned  to  her  previous 
swift  energy.  She  rose  and  took  the  pins  from  her 
hair.  It  fell,  a  tangled  length,  reaching  to  her  knees, 
crisp,  rather  coarse  hair,  which,  when  the  light  struck 
it,  looked  tawny.  She  combed  it  with  quick  strokes 
and  braided  it  deftly  into  two  braids,  tying  each  with 
red  ribbon,  flaring  bows  such  as  would  be  worn  by  a 
miss  of  fifteen.  From  the  huddle  on  the  floor  she  took 
then  a  flannel  blouse  with  a  childishly  wide  collar,  and 
ended  by  placing  on  her  head  a  cheap  sailor  hat  dec- 
orated with  a  red  quill.    She  was  costumed. 

She  studied  the  effect  closely,  twisting  about  to  do 
so,  displaying  a  feline  grace  that  suggested  maturity, 
as  did  the  sleepy  intelligence  of  her  long  heavily- 
lashed  eyes.  Yet  in  figure  she  looked  a  very  young 
girl;  she  was  not  really  tall,  her  appearance  of  height 
being  the  result  of  long  lines ;  and  she  was  so  extremely 
thin.  Most  observers  would  decide  that  she  had  the 
look  of  maturity  which  illness  sometimes  stamps  on 
the  face  of  a  child;  the  decent  poverty  of  her  attire 
gave  her  an  air  of  pathos. 

"Bon!"  she  whispered,  with  a  look  of  satisfaction. 

Then,  suddenly,  her  face  changed.  Her  eyes  nar- 
rowed to  mere  slits,  her  head  dropped,  her  features  be- 
came immobile,  every  atom  of  her  given  to  listening. 


A   DISGUISE  5 

She  turned  and,  without  apparent  purpose,  moved  well 
beyond  the  range  of  vision  commanded  by  the  keyhole. 
Then  with  infinite  caution  she  sank  to  the  floor  and 
lay  with  head  bent  to  it,  listening.  Then,  as  noise- 
lessly, she  began  to  creep  toward  the  door,  pausing  at 
intervals,  until  she  brought  up  with  ear  to  the  crack 
beneath  it.  The  first  truck  on  its  way  to  the  wharves 
rumbled  along  through  the  street  with  a  clatter  of 
heavy  hoofs  sufficient  to  deaden  any  light  sound,  but 
she  relaxed  not  a  muscle.  .  .  .  Suddenly  she  lifted, 
and  dropping  back  on  her  haunches,  threw  back  her 
head  and  laughed,  silent  laughter  that  shook  her. 

She  rose  then,  grown  immobile  again,  and  careful  of 
every  sound,  as  she  had  been  from  the  beginning,  she 
removed  the  chair  that,  braced  beneath  the  door-knob, 
had  served  instead  of  a  lock,  and  softly  opened  to  the 
breathing  thing  whose  presence  she  had  sensed.  It 
was  a  cat,  tawny  and  thin  almost  as  a  shadow,  arching 
its  back  against  the  door- jamb. 

Yellow  eyes  looked  into  yellow  eyes,  and  the  cat 
lifted  a  pale  lip  in  a  soundless  mew.  Then  at  a  regal 
motion  of  the  girl's  the  yellow  shadow  slipped  in,  and 
with  the  same  noiseless  caution  the  girl  rebarricaded 
the  door. 

She  came  back  to  the  loosened  bundle  on  the  floor 
and,  quite  oblivious  of  her  companion,  went  on  swiftly 
with  her  preparations.  She  folded  into  small  compass 
her  few  articles  of  clothing,  her  attention  given  chiefly 
to  a  package  of  letters,  and  a  roll  of  drawings.  The 
latter  she  handled  thoughtfully.    Evidently  it  occurred 


6  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

to  her  to  destroy  them,  for  she  looked  about  the  room, 
at  the  cold  stove  and  the  cracked  slop-bowl — and  de- 
cided against  destruction.  She  put  the  roll  of  draw- 
ings, together  with  the  letters,  under  the  folded  cloth- 
ing, but  first  she  singled  out  from  the  letters  one  which 
she  placed  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 

Wrapping  her  little  pile  of  belongings  in  the  blanket, 
she  tied  it  up  with  the  rope  that  evidently  had  previ- 
ously served  the  purpose.  Hatted,  clothed  for  her 
journey,  she  sat  down  then  in  immigrant  fashion  on 
her  bundle,  a  crouching  figure,  apparently  half  woman, 
half  child,  hollow-cheeked  and  jaundiced  by  privation 
or  fever,  possibly  a  fleck  of  the  war-scum  of  1915  that 
had  been  borne  across  the  Atlantic  and  tossed  upon  a 
neutral  shore.  With  eyes  narrowed  and  brilliant,  but 
with  features  as  immobile  as  an  Indian's  or  a  stolid 
peasant's  transported  westward  into  a  far  country,  she 
watched  for  the  first  sign  of  day. 

And  the  tawny  cat,  starveling  wanderer  of  grimy 
pavements  and  dank  back  yards,  arched  its  spine 
against  her  knee,  twisted  and  turned  against  it,  purring 
between  pale  lips. 


II 

TWO  FINANCIERS AND  A  STRAY 

ON  a  spring  evening,  in  the  year  1915,  in  a  new 
residence  in  a  thriving  middle-western  town 
that  its  next  census  will  declare  to  be  a  city  of  two 
hundred  thousand  souls,  two  men  sat  over  their  after- 
dinner  coffee.  They  were  perhaps  the  two  most  promi- 
nent citizens  of  Laclasse :  Alexander  MacAllister,  mil- 
lionaire manufacturer  and  landowner,  and  Frederick 
Bagsby,  president  of  the  Laclasse  National  Bank. 

They  were  sitting  in  MacAllister's  library,  before  a 
bright  wood  fire  which  was  an  offset  to  the  dampness, 
laden  with  the  smell  of  fresh  earth  and  young  grass, 
blown  in  from  the  French  windows  at  the  end  of  the 
long  room.  For  an  April  rain  was  falling,  a  steady 
patter  on  the  tiling  of  the  porch. 

They  had  dined  well,  and  with  the  evening  paper's 
budget  of  war  news  at  their  elbows,  had  talked  of  the 
European  situation.  "I  told  ye  in  the  beginning, 
there'd  be  no  near  end  to  it,"  had  been  MacAllister's 
concluding  remark. 

"You  certainly  have  banked  on  a  long  continuance 
of  the  war,"  Bagsby  replied. 

MacAllister  gave  him  his  shrewd  glance.  "I've 
7 


8  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

not  gone  entirely  on  guesswork,  Fred.  I  didn't  go  to 
Paris  and  London  last  fall  for  nothing.  I  had  a  couple 
of  hard  and  fast  contracts  back  of  me  and  the  certainty 
of  more  to  come,  before  ever  I  decided  to  turn  my  iron 
works  into  a  munition  plant."  He  lowered  his  voice. 
"There  was  a  three-hundred-thousand-dollar  order 
came  in  to-day;  I've  more  work  ahead  for  the  plant 
than  it  can  get  through  in  a  year.  By  the  second  week 
in  May  we'll  be  in  full  blast." 

"I  don't  want  to  criticize  you,  Mac;  any  one  who 
wants  to  manufacture  the  materials  to  kill  may,  but  I 
shouldn't  want  to  do  it,"  Bagsby  said. 

"But  ye'd  gladly  furnish  the  money  to  buy  ammuni- 
tion," MacAllister  retorted  dryly.  "Ye'd  be  as  keen 
over  an  international  loan  as  any  banker  in  the  coun- 
try." 

Bagsby  studied  him  a  moment,  his  usually  kindly 
face  grown  grave.  "Not  I!"  he  said  with  decision. 
"It's  my  business  to  loan  money,  I  know,  just  as  it's 
your  business  to  manufacture ;  but  I  loan  my  money  as 
I  see  fit.  I'd  loan  it  in  a  minute  to  prevent  war,  and 
it's  my  belief  that,  after  we've  learned  our  ugly  lesson, 
money  will  be  the  force  that  will  prevent  war.  If  the 
world  had  been  a  little  more  on  the  alert  and  less  held 
by  its  traditions,  I  believe  that  monetary  force,  wisely 
applied,  might  have  averted  this  barbaric  waste  of 
life.  .  .  .  But  to  turn  bloodshed  to  a  cash  account ! 
.  .  .  I've  told  you  before,  Mac — I  don't  stand  with 
you  on  this  enterprise  of  yours,  and  the  best  sense  of 
the  community  is  with  me.     I  think  that  the  feeling 


TWO   FINANCIERS— AND   A    STRAY      9 

here  is  that  this  whole  munition  question  is  the  one 
which  is  most  likely  to  embroil  us — that  it's  a  menace 
to  the  neutrality  we're  all  anxious  to  preserve.  You've 
already  aroused  a  labor  agitation  that  we  don't  want 
here  in  Laclasse;  you've  always  employed  a  big  force 
of  Austrians  as  well  as  Italians  in  your  iron  works, 
and  your  present  arrangement  discounts  the  Austrian 
and  favors  the  Italian.  It's  a  necessary  precautionary 
measure,  I  suppose ;  but  it's  aroused  feeling  among  the 
laboring  class.  Laclasse  hasn't  wanted  your  plant, 
Mac,  and  you  don't  need  the  money  it'll  bring  you." 

Mac  Alii  ster's  heavy  brows  lowered.  "Andrew 
Kraup  hasn't  wanted  my  plant,  you  mean,"  MacAllis- 
ter  retorted.  "Now  that  he's  done  nosing  about  to  see 
if  he  couldn't  make  trouble  for  me  over  the  location  of 
my  plant  and  my  right  of  way  to  the  railroad,  perhaps 
there'll  be  peace  in  Laclasse.  I'm  quite  able  to  cope 
with  a  few  disaffected  Austrian  laborers.  I  stand  on 
my  rights,  and  on  precedent.  Ye  have  a  right  to  yer 
views,  and  I  to  mine,  and  Kraup  to  his,  but  neither 
he  nor  any  other  man  shall  stop  my  manufacturing 
ammunition  for  my  friends.  Don't  ye  forget  that 
I'm  barely  one  generation  an  American,  Fred." 

"Well,  well — we've  gone  over  the  subject  before 
and  got  nowhere,"  Bagsby  said,  with  a  return  to  his 
usual  genial  manner.  "Both  you  and  Kraup  are  good 
American  citizens;  either  of  you'd  flare  at  the  man 
who'd  intimate  that  you  weren't.  You  two  are  out  and 
out  the  biggest  real-estate  owners  here.  You've  done 
more  to  develop  the  town  than  any  other  two  men,  and 


10  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

always  with  the  best  interests  of  the  town  in  mind,  and 
yet  you're  both  of  you  illustrations  of  'Blood's  thicker 
than  water/  " 

"With  the  important  difference  that  I'm  nobody's 
spy." 

Bagsby  looked  across  at  his  host,  inwardly  much 
amused.  The  feud  between  Alexander  MacAllister 
and  Andrew  Kraup  was  of  long  standing.  They  had 
been  business  antagonists  for  years.  They  had  fought 
over  land  deals  in  the  early  days,  and  each  on  occasion 
had  "done"  the  other.  It  had  always  been  steel  against 
steel  with  those  two,  Kraup's  bulk  pitted  against  Mac- 
Allister's  hard  muscle.  MacAllister  was  a  manufac- 
turer of  home  products,  and  Kraup  was  at  the  head 
of  the  largest  middle-western  firm  importing  German 
goods;  they  were  continually  clashing  over  their  re- 
spective interests.  The  war  had  dealt  Kraup's  firm  a 
blow,  and  MacAllister  was  profiting  by  conditions  that 
were  adverse  to  Kraup's  interests,  both  his  business 
and  his  family  interests,  for  Kraup  had  a  large  family 
connection  in  Germany  with  which  the  war  was  play- 
ing havoc.  Kraup  had  reason  to  feel  bitter  toward  his 
triumphant  rival,  and  yet  MacAllister's  prejudices  did 
not  stir  in  the  least  Bagsby's  belief  in  Andrew  Kraup's 
integrity;  Bagsby's  bank  had  done  business  with  An- 
drew Kraup  for  some  twenty  years  or  more — before 
ever  Bagsby  inherited  his  father's  place  as  head  of  the 
bank. 

And  Bagsby  was  also  quite  as  well  acquainted  with 
MacAllister,  with  both  his  good  qualities  and  his  un- 


TWO    FINANCIERS— AND    A    STRAY    11 

amiable  traits.  Both  Kraup  and  MacAllister  were 
born  fighters — that  was  the  trouble.  Bagsby  was  a 
small  rotund  man,  and,  as  a  rule,  genial  and  kindly. 
He  studied  with  a  touch  of  envy  MacAllister's  fair 
height,  rugged  head  and  general  appearance  of  big- 
boned  spareness.  The  smileless  look  of  the  man  was 
in  keeping  with  the  dryness  of  his  voice,  the  sunburned 
dryness  of  his  skin,  and  the  hardness  of  the  hand  that 
held  in  its  hollow  a  smoke-blackened  pipe.  And  yet 
he  gave  the  impression  of  abounding  force  and  a  cer- 
tain youthful  virility.  He  looked  all  of  forty-four, 
yet  when  overtaken  by  amusement  laughed  like  a  boy 
of  twenty.  He  had  a  well-developed,  though  a  some- 
what sardonic,  sense  of  humor. 

If  there  was  amusement  beneath  MacAllister's  next 
remark,  his  aspect  did  not  show  it.  He  broke  the  mo- 
ment's silence  abruptly.  "We'll  let  my  plant  be — 
what's  all  this  talk  about  my  getting  married  ?" 

Bagsby  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat,  for  on  this  count 
he  felt  guilty.  MacAllister  had  a  way  of  jumping 
from  one  subject  to  another  that  was  discomposing 
at  times. 

"A  house  of  twenty  rooms,  Mac,  and  you  a  bache- 
lor," he  protested.  "Isn't  that  enough  to  set  every 
woman's  tongue  in  the  city  wagging?" 

"And  how  about  the  male  tongues  of  this  gossipless 
place?"  MacAllister  persisted.  "It  struck  me,  when  I 
came  a  bit  unexpectedly  on  yer  group  of  three  to-day 
at  the  club,  that  I  heard  my  name  mentioned  in  con- 
nection with  matrimony.    By  all  rights  you  and  Kraup 


12  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

and  Harmon  Kent  ought  to've  been  discussing  the  com- 
mercial welfare  of  this  town.  Possibly  ye  were  just 
filling  in  time  till  I  appeared,  arranging  the  private 
affairs  of  some  of  us  who've  been  lucky  enough  to  es- 
cape the  noose  the  rest  of  ye've  run  yer  heads  into? 
Who  have  the  lot  of  ye  picked  for  me  now  ?  I'm  inter- 
ested to  hear." 

Bagsby  felt  thoroughly  uncomfortable.  He  knew 
more  about  MacAllister's  bachelor  laxities  than  most 
men  did.  MacAllister  was,  as  Bagsby  would  have  ex- 
pressed it,  "a  very  human  sort."  But  this  matter  he 
had  broached  was  somewhat  out  of  the  ordinary. 
Bagsby  felt  that  he  was  going  to  be  flayed,  and  it  was 
all  Kraup's  fault — and  MacAllister's  for  having  chal- 
lenged gossip.  A  man  and  woman  couldn't  defy  pub- 
lic opinion,  as  MacAllister  and  Freda  O'Rourke  had, 
and  not  be  discussed;  particularly  when  MacAllister 
had  built  a  house  that  looked  like  a  plain  bid  for  matri- 
mony. 

MacAllister  must  know  that  he  had  always  been  gos- 
siped about.  He  had  always  kept  his  own  counsel  and 
done  as  he  pleased — two  things  the  public  will  not  for- 
give. He  had  begun  by  running  away  from  Laclasse 
when  he  was  fifteen.  He  had  been  first  a  cowboy  in 
Texas,  and  then  a  miner  in  Mexico.  He  had  returned 
fifteen  years  later,  when  both  his  father  and  his  step- 
mother were  dead,  when  Laclasse  was  experiencing  its 
first  substantial  boom.  He  had  some  money  then,  how 
much  or  how  little  no  one  but  MacAllister  knew;  it 
was  supposed  he  had  cleaned  up  a  comfortable  sum  in 


TWO   FINANCIERS— AND   A   STRAY    13 

Mexican  mines.  He  had  invested  first  in  real  estate, 
and  then  started  his  bag  factory;  there  were  millions 
of  bushels  of  Nebraska  wheat  to  be  sacked.  From  that 
on,  he  had  climbed  steadily  up  the  ladder  of  success. 
Later,  he  had  established  his  iron  works.  In  1910  he 
was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Laclasse,  and  in  1915 
he  was  granted  to  be  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  all 
Nebraska. 

He  had  not  married.  When  Laclasse  began  to  ad- 
vertise its  prosperity  by  building  beautiful  homes,  Mac- 
Allister  did  not  build.  For  six  years  he  had  occupied 
the  upper  floor  of  the  old  O'Rourke  house,  living  still 
in  his  usual  unconventional  fashion.  Nevertheless,  his 
close  friendship  with  Freda  O'Rourke  had  apparently 
remained  unbroken;  he  had  never  hesitated  to  show 
himself  in  public  with  her — to  the  continual  edification 
of  the  scandal-lovers.  Laclasse  had  decided  that  a 
man  with  MacAllister's  attitude  to  marriage  was  not 
likely  to  burden  himself  with  an  establishment,  so  even 
when  he  had  financed  the  Dunkirk  Division  Associa- 
tion which  was  now  luring  the  socially  ambitious 
Country  Clubwards  into  suburban  exclusiveness,  no 
one  had  thought  that  he  would  join  the  exodus.  Even 
when  it  was  known  that  MacAllister  had  reserved  an 
entire  block  for  himself,  no  one  suspected. 

But  the  thing  had  happened.  MacAllister  had  built 
himself  a  palatial  house  that  outwardly  had  the  severe 
dignity  of  a  beautifully  designed  institution.  It  had 
a  big  upper  hall  that  might  be  meant  for  either  a  ball- 
room or  an  art  gallery.    Laclasse  had  decided  that  it 


14  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

must  portend  a  matrimonial  venture  of  some  sort. 
Was  he  thinking  of  marrying  Freda  O'Rourke?  In 
justice  to  her  he  ought  to  marry  her;  their  intimacy 
had  been  town  talk  for  years.  But  men  rarely  did  such 
chivalrous  things.  He  was  far  more  likely  to  marry 
some  girl  who  was  an  entire  stranger  to  Laclasse. 
Some  Scotch  girl,  possibly;  his  father  had  been  a 
Scotchman,  and  MacAllister  was  intensely  proud  of 
his  Scotch  descent.  He  even  clung  determinedly  to  his 
Scotch  accent. 

Bagsby  knew  that  this  sort  of  talk  had  enlivened 
every  drawing-room  in  Laclasse  for  months.  But  it 
would  be  decidedly  awkward  if  MacAllister  had  over- 
heard all  that  had  been  said  at  the  club  that  afternoon. 
Some  of  the  references  to  Freda  O'Rourke  had  been 
broad.  He  hoped  that  MacAllister  had  caught  only 
Kraup's  final  remark:  "I  bet  you  ten  to  one  MacAl- 
lister's  orphan  asylum  will  haf  a  mistress  before  the 
year  is  gone." 

"Just  women's  talk,  Mac,"  Bagsby  maintained 
stoutly.  "It's  the  house  has  done  it.  No  bachelor 
could  build  a  house  like  this  and  not  set  the  town  talk- 
ing. 

"And  I  suppose  ye'd  advise  me  to  marry  in  self- 
defense?"  MacAllister  asked  in  the  same  smileless  way. 

"Why  shouldn't  you  marry?"  Bagsby  argued. 
"You're  just  forty-four — if  you're  ever  going  to 
marry,  now's  the  time." 

Bagsby  was  eager  to  lead  off  into  a  discussion ;  Mac- 
Allister was  bitter  sometimes  about  marriage. 


TWO    FINANCIERS— AND   A    STRAY    15 

But  MacAllister  was  not  to  be  drawn.  "This  town 
likes  to  talk,"  he  continued.  "Possibly  I'll  give  it 
cause." 

So  it  was  Freda  O'Rourke  after  all !  "You  do  mean 
to  marry,  then?"  Bagsby  asked  with  interest. 

MacAllister  laughed  out  like  one  who  has  restrained 
amusement  as  long  as  he  could.  "Lord !  The  world's 
marrying  mad!  Marry!  No!  What  do  ye  take  me 
for?  .  .  .  We're  old  friends,  though,  Fred,  so  I'll 
say  a  word  in  yer  ear :  I'm  more  like  to  adopt  a  daugh- 
ter and  keep  my  freedom.  Ye  see,  I've  got  to  think 
of  some  one  to  leave  all  this  to,"  and  he  pointed  to  the 
vista  of  galleried  hall. 

Bagsby  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  that  bit  of 
confidence.  He  judged  that  MacAllister  was  joking. 
Still  there  was  never  any  telling,  for  MacAllister's 
joking  often  covered  seriousness,  and  his  seriousness 
as  often  as  not  was  a  cloak  to  amusement.  It  was  use- 
less to  question.  "Is  that  so — "  he  remarked  uncer- 
tainly. 

"I'm  a  deal  more  likely  to  endow  somebody  else's 
child  than  beget  one  of  my  own,"  MacAllister  con- 
tinued, with  a  return  to  entire  gravity.  "Ye  know  well 
enough  what  I  think  of  marriage,  Fred — the  idea  of 
yer  lending  yer  ear  to  such  talk !"  Then  he  shrugged. 
"But  I  didn't  bring  ye  out  here  to  convince  ye  that 
Kraup's  going  to  lose  his  bet.  I  don't  give  a  Deil's 
sixpence  for  the  town  talk — let  it  talk.  .  .  .  Fred, 
ye  know  a  good  picture  when  ye  see  it,  and  yeVe  just 
seen  that  big  empty  hall  up  above — I'm  thinking  of 


16  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

going  in  for  art.  I'm  going  to  fill  that  place  with  pic- 
tures." 

Bagsby  smothered  a  spasm  of  laughter  with  diffi- 
culty. MacAllister  go  in  for  art!  ...  So  this 
was  the  reason  he  had  been  captured  at  the  club  and 
brought  out  to  see  MacAllister's  new  house ! 

Bagsby  really  did  know  something  about  art.  He 
had  inherited  his  fortune;  his  father  had  established 
the  first  banking  firm  in  Nebraska.  It  was  one  of  the 
funny  stories  of  the  town,  his  having  run  away  from 
college  and  gone  to  New  York,  intent  on  being  an 
artist ;  and  how  he  had  been  brought  back  to  Laclasse 
by  his  father  and  set  to  work  in  the  bank.  By  an  un- 
usual chance  Frederick  Bagsby  turned  out  something 
of  a  financier,  but  he  never  lost  his  love  of  art.  He 
was  president  of  the  Art  Exhibition  League.  He  had 
allowed  himself  to  be  elected  to  the  public  school  board 
because  he  had  art  instruction  in  the  Laclasse  schools 
at  heart.  It  was  he  who  had  urged  the  school  board  to 
increase  the  art  teacher's  salary  so  Carl  Mendall  could 
be  brought  from  the  East.  It  was  his  love  of  beauty 
that  had  married  him  to  the  present  Mrs.  Bagsby — 
she  had  an  astonishingly  beautiful  profile. 

But  MacAllister  and  art!  MacAllister  knew  no 
more  about  art  than  his  English  butler — less,  probably, 
for  Townley  appeared  to  have  spent  most  of  his  life 
abroad. 

It  was  the  butler  who,  fortunately,  at  this  moment 
diverted  MacAllister's  attention.    He  had  opened  the 


TWO   FINANCIERS— AND   A    STRAY    17 

front  door  to  a  caller,  and  was  engaged  in  an  alterca- 
tion. 

"Who  can  it  be  in  this  rain?"  MacAllister  said,  puz- 
zled. 

It  was  a  girl  who  had  entered,  and  now  stood  in  full 
view  while  Townley  came  to  announce  her.  They 
could  see  her  as  she  waited,  an  ill-dressed  girl,  tall  and 
thin.  Bagsby  had  only  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  for 
when  she  saw  him,  she  averted  it.  He  received  a  gen- 
eral impression,  however :  cheeks  sallow  and  hollowed, 
a  mouth  that  in  contrast  appeared  full-lipped,  and  eyes 
which  in  the  shadow  of  her  hat  looked  queerly  wide 
apart.  From  the  look  of  her  sagging,  clinging  gar- 
ments, she  must  be  dripping  pools  of  water  on  Mac- 
Allister's beautiful  hall  floor.  Still,  she  did  not  look 
a  beggar.  Some  Italian  from  the  packing  district,  or 
from  MacAllister's  iron  works  ? 

But  Townley  had  better  sense  than  to  admit  such 
at  the  front  door.  He  was  an  intelligent  man  who 
acted  both  as  MacAllister's  chauffeur  and  his  butler. 
MacAllister  kept  only  men  servants;  his  cook  was  a 
Chinaman.  Curious  that  a  girl  should  come  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night  to  a  house  that  contained  only  men. 
Some  misstep  of  MacAllister's  come  to  confront  him? 
But  the  girl  had  the  appearance  of  almost  a  child;  her 
two  sopping  braids  of  hair  hung  to  her  knees. 

MacAllister  was  staring  at  her;  then  his  eyes  ques- 
tioned the  butler. 

Townley  was  a  clean-shaven,  erect  man.    Just  now 


18  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

he  looked  more  erect  than  usual.  His  blond  face  was 
flushed,  for  the  altercation  at  the  door  had  been  brief 
and  sharp.  "A — young  person — who  insists  she  must 
see  you,  sir.  She  presents  this,  sir,"  he  announced, 
with  a  mien  haughty  enough  for  a  stage  butler. 

MacAllister  took  the  envelope  and  hastily  drew  out 
a  folded  sheet.  It  had  an  extraordinary  effect  on  him : 
he  stared  at  it  like  one  looking  upon  a  ghost,  then  was 
out  of  his  chair  and  in  the  hall  before  Bagsby  realized 
what  he  was  about.  Then  he  saw  the  meeting :  MacAl- 
lister halted  before  the  girl,  and  Bagsby  heard  an  indis- 
tinct exclamation,  a  momentary  pause  before  he  offered 
his  hand.  He  talked  then,  her  hand  in  his,  a  low- 
voiced  conversation  that  did  not  penetrate  into  the 
library.  Bagsby  wished  that  MacAllister's  substan- 
tial body  did  not  hide  the  girl. 

He  did  not  bring  her  into  the  library;  he  led  her, 
presently,  to  the  stairs,  his  arm  about  her  shoulders, 
and  as  he  turned,  Bagsby  saw  his  face.  It  wore  a 
curious  expression,  startled  certainly,  but  that  was 
not  all;  Bagsby  could  not  define  just  what  MacAllis- 
ter's lifted  brows  and  parted  lips  did  mean — it  was  not 
an  expression  he  had  ever  seen  on  Alexander  MacAl- 
lister's face  before. 

They  passed  on,  up  the  stairs,  and  when  Bagsby 
turned  to  the  butler,  he  found  that  he  had  only  his 
very  active  curiosity  as  companion,  for  Townley  had 
disappeared. 


Ill 

MACALLISTER   QUESTIONS 

IT  WAS  fully  half  an  hour  before  MacAllister  re- 
turned. As  he  came  in,  Bagsby  noticed  that  he 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  hall,  to 
make  sure,  probably,  that  from  where  he  sat  Bagsby 
must  have  seen  the  meeting.  He  looked  as  usual  now, 
his  sandy  brows  pent,  his  lips  shut  in  a  straight  line. 

He  offered  no  explanation.  "I'm  sorry  we  were 
interrupted,"  was  all  he  said.  "What's  become  of 
Townley?  Hasn't  he  been  looking  after  ye?"  He 
rang  peremptorily.  "Yer  forgetting  yer  duties,"  he 
said  sharply  when  the  man  appeared.  "Ye  know  bet- 
ter than  that." 

Townley  may  have  gathered  from  MacAllister's 
manner  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  a  graver  mistake 
than  the  neglect  of  Mr.  Bagsby ;  possibly  sundry  orders 
hurtled  from  up-stairs  had  convinced  the  butler  that  he 
had  admitted  an  angel  unawares ;  at  any  rate  the  celer- 
ity with  which  he  was  served  amused  Bagsby.  Town- 
ley  created  quite  a  stir  with  whisky  and  seltzer  and  the 
proffer  of  cigars.  The  man  was  clever;  he  was  sec- 
onding MacAllister's  wish  for  a  diversion ;  it  helped  to 
bridge  the  interval  during  which  MacAllister  knew 
his  guest  must  have  been  doing  some  thinking. 

19 


20  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

MacAllister  evidently  meant  to  make  no  explanation, 
for  as  soon  as  he  was  settled  in  his  chair  he  took  up 
the  subject  which  had  been  dropped  when  the  girl 
entered.  "I  was  in  earnest  when  I  said  I  meant  to 
fill  that  gallery  of  mine  up-stairs,"  he  said.  "What  sort 
of  work  does  Mendall  do,  Fred?" 

"Who— Carl  Mendall?  .  .  .  He  paints— well." 
There  was  hesitation  in  Bagsby's  manner.  He  was 
taken  aback  by  MacAllister's  unexpected  mention  of 
the  artist. 

"He  teaches,  doesn't  he?" 

Bagsby's  manner  was  a  trifle  curt :  "He  teaches  in 
the  public  schools — I  thought  every  one  knew  that." 

"It's  private  lessons  I  mean  ?  I  thought  yer  daugtu 
ter  was  taking  of  him?" 

"Yes,  Clare  took  of  him  for  a  time." 

"Just  where  does  he  live,  Fred  ?" 

Bagsby  wondered  what  Mendall's  teaching  or  his 
residence  had  to  do  with  stocking  MacAllister's  gal- 
lery. He  had  grown  red;  any  mention  of  Carl  Men- 
dall made  him  uncomfortable,  but  he  did  not  want  to 
show  it.  "He  lives  out  Bellevue  way.  They  bought 
an  acre  or  two  from  Judge  Camp  and  built." 

"Judge  Camp?  Their  house  must  be  just  below 
Twin  Oaks  Hill,  then!  It  can't  be  more  than  a  mile 
and  a  half  southeast  of  the  plant.  .  .  .  Did  ye 
ever  buy  any  of  Mendall's  paintings,  Fred?" 

"Yes,  one — when  he  first  came  here." 

"His  wife's  a  nice  woman,  isn't  she — well  educated 
and  domestic?" 


MACALLISTER   QUESTIONS  21 

Bagsby  felt  like  asking  MacAllister  what  he  was 
"driving  at."  If  MacAllister  had  been  questioning 
about  any  one  else,  he  would  have  asked.  "So  I've 
heard,"  he  answered  steadily. 

"And  well  bred?"  MacAllister  persisted. 

The  banker  looked  as  grave  as  he  did  in  business 
hours.  "I  believe  so.  She's  a  New  Englander. 
.     .     .     So  is  Mendall." 

"Mendall  a  New  Englander !  He  looks  more  like  a 
handsome  gipsy;  the  kind  of  man  women  usually  make 
fools  of  themselves  over.  ...  I  do  remember 
now  that  he  talks  like  an  Englishman  gone  wrong — 
broad  Vs'  and  all  that.  ...  Have  they  any  chil- 
dren?" 

"I  believe  not,"  Bagsby  returned.  He  shifted  un- 
easily. If  there  was  beginning  to  be  gossip  about 
his  daughter  and  Mendall,  and  it  had  been  his  hourly 
fear  that  there  would  be,  MacAllister  was  taking  a  sar- 
donic way  of  acquainting  him  with  it.  MacAllister 
had  an  abominable  way  with  him  sometimes;  he  had 
always  had — even  when  a  boy.  He  was  keenly  and  ac- 
curately observant,  and  cool  as  the  devil.  The  man 
who  incurred  his  displeasure  might  expect  to  be 
prodded  unmercifully.  It  was  one  reason  why  he  was 
feared  more  than  he  was  liked.  He  had  some  trait9 
that  were  exasperating. 

"They  are  poor,  of  course?"  MacAllister  continued. 

"Would  any  artist  stay  five  minutes  in  Laclasse  if 
he  had  money  to  get  out?"  Bagsby  retorted,  giving  way 
a  little  to  his  feelings.    "They  say  he  has  a  houseful 


22  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

of  paintings  he  can't  sell.  Why  don't  you  buy  them 
for  your  gallery  and  give  him  the  loose  change  he 
needs  to  take  himself  off  to  Paris !" 

If  MacAllister  knew  the  real  reason  for  Bagsby's 
heat,  he  did  not  show  it.  "That's  not  a  bad  idea,"  he 
said  thoughtfully.  "And  particularly  so  as  Paris  is  out 
of  the  question  for  a  year  or  so."  Then  he  showed  his 
teeth  in  the  sudden  smile  which  occasionally  overtook 
him.  "I'm  much  obliged  to  ye,  Fred.  Ye've  told  me 
several  things  I've  wanted  to  know." 

"I'll  go,  then,"  Bagsby  returned,  endeavoring  to 
be  natural.    "It's  getting  late." 

"I'll  have  Townley  get  out  the  limousine,  and  mean- 
time have  a  bit  more  Scotch,"  MacAllister  urged.  He 
looked  pleased,  a  somewhat  rare  expression  with  him. 

Bagsby  emptied  his  glass  mechanically.  He  was 
thoroughly  upset  by  the  suspicion  that  MacAllister  had 
been  punishing  him  for  sitting  quietly  by  while  MacAl- 
lister's  private  affairs  were  being  discussed.  If  he  was 
meaning  to  tell  him  that  his,  Bagsby's,  glass  house 
was  also  being  stoned,  he  was  taking  a  roundabout  way 
of  doing  it ;  but  that  was  like  MacAllister. 

He  felt  hotly  sure  that  it  was  MacAllister's  purpose, 
when  a  few  minutes  later  they  stood  in  the  vestibule, 
and  MacAllister  said  abruptly :  "Fred,  I  believe  it's  a 
deal  more  complicated  thing,  rearing  a  girl — than  a 
boy.  Don't  ye?  .  .  .  A  girl  can  be  tarnished  so 
easy.  Dirt  has  a  way  of  sticking  to  a  woman.  .  .  . 
And  say  what  ye  will,  this  place  is  rapid.  It's  a  funny 
combination  of  Puritanism  and  looseness.     Perhaps 


MACALLISTER   QUESTIONS  23 

it's  just  that  the  town's  not  large  enough  yet  for  things 
to  be  done  sub  rosa,  so  they're  evident." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know ;  we're  free  and  easy,  but  I  don't 
believe  we're  unwholesome,"  Bagsby  objected,  con- 
scious meantime  that  the  palms  of  his  hands  had  grown 
damp.  It  was  one  thing,  listening  to  comments  on 
Freda  O'Rourke,  and  quite  another,  the  realization  that 
the  same  sort  of  comment  might  be  hovering  over  his 
own  household. 

As  Townley  swept  him  cityward,  Bagsby  reflected 
that  MacAllister  showed  his  good  sense  in  keeping  out 
of  marriage.  His  own  venture  was  not  proving  satis- 
factory. He  had  married  too  young  a  woman,  and 
that  was  what  a  man  who  had  money  and  was  well 
along  in  life  was  apt  to  do.  He  had  forgotten  Clare 
when  he  married.  Blanche  was  not  the  best  guide 
for  his  daughter.  She  was  not  experienced  enough, 
and  too  critically  aloof  herself,  to  realize  that  it  might 
be  dangerous  for  an  independently  inclined  girl  like 
Clare  to  be  thrown  too  much  with  a  fascinating  man 
like  Carl  Mendall.  Blanche  was  too  assured  and  too 
much  given  to  enthusiasm. 

Bagsby  had  disapproved  of  his  wife's  having  her 
portrait  painted  by  Mendall.  When  he  had  remon- 
strated there  had  been  a  scene:  he  was  told  that  La- 
classe  was  absolutely  barren  of  intellectual  pleasures; 
that  she  had  the  advancement  of  art  in  Laclasse  quite 
as  much  at  heart  as  he  had ;  that  Carl  Mendall  was  cer- 
tainly a  genius ;  he  was  poor  and  struggling,  and  paint- 
ing her  portrait  would  bring  him  other  commissions. 


24  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

And  now,  just  because  of  some  foolish  idea  about 
Clare,  he  wanted  her  to  drop  the  artist.  It  was  an 
utterly  unnecessary  cruelty  1 

Bagsby  had  succumbed,  but  he  had  not  ceased  to  be 
uneasy.  He  had  not  spoken  to  Clare ;  it  might  be  put- 
ting ideas  into  her  head  that  so  far  had  no  lodgment 
there.  Until  this  interest  in  Carl  Mendall  had  taken 
hold  on  her  and  her  stepmother,  she  had  shown  no 
particular  interest  in  any  one — unless,  possibly,  in 
young  Ellis  Kraup.  She  had  never  shown  any  liking 
for  older  men  such  as  Harmon  Kent,  who,  in  spite  of 
his  reputation — perhaps  because  of  it — was  considered 
fascinating.  She  had  always  seemed  so  thoroughly 
wholesome. 

For  some  time  Bagsby  had  realized  that  he  had  not 
considered  Clare  sufficiently  when  he  married.  It 
made  him  highly  sensitive  in  everything  that  concerned 
his  daughter,  and  to-night  MacAllister's  enigmatic 
speeches  fell  like  sparks  on  tinder.  He  decided  that 
something  must  be  done  in  this  Mendall  matter,  but  he 
would  have  to  go  about  it  carefully  or  there  would  be 
a  deal  more  talk  than  there  was. 

In  his  perturbation  Bagsby  forgot,  for  the  time  be- 
ing, the  incident  of  the  evening,  the  girl  he  had  left  in 
MacAllister's  house. 


IV 

SOLDIERS  OF  FORTUNE 

WHEN  MacAllister's  chauffeur  left  the  Bagsbys' 
door  it  was  not  to  return  as  rapidly  as  possible 
to  the  palatial  garage  which  housed  MacAllister's  ma- 
chines. He  turned  cityward  on  Broad  Street,  the 
main  business  thoroughfare  of  Laclasse.  The  down- 
pour was  just  now  so  terrific  that  the  asphalt  was  sub- 
merged in  places.  The  gutters  were  small  rivers.  On 
his  way  down  Broad  Street  he  had  passed  only  an  oc- 
casional vehicle;  everything  had  sought  shelter  from 
the  storm. 

When  Townley  reached  the  region  of  shops,  he  left 
the  limousine  at  the  curb  and  walked  to  the  first  drug 
store.  He  went  directly  to  its  telephone  booth  and 
called  up  the  MacAllister  house. 

It  was  MacAllister  who  answered. 

"I'm  down  in  the  city,  sir,"  the  chauffeur  said.  "A 
tire  has  gone  wrong,  and  in  this  rain  I  thought  best  to 
run  the  machine  down.  I'll  'ave  it  in  horder  and  out 
early  in  the  morning,  sir." 

"Just  the  tire?"  MacAllister  asked. 

"Just  that,  sir.  I  couldn't  stop  in  the  rain  to  fix  it, 
sir." 

"Of  course  not.    Put  it  up  for  the  night  and  fix  it 
25 


26  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

in  the  morning.  I'll  run  myself  down  in  the  car 
in  the  morning.  It's  certain  to  be  clear — I  won't  want 
the  limousine." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Townley  went  out  to  the  limousine,  and  turning 
from  Broad  into  a  side  street,  drove  in  the  direction  of 
South  Laclasse. 

For  a  long  distance  he  went  by  the  most  traveled 
streets — until  he  had  passed  the  stock-yard  and  pack- 
ing district,  and  had  crossed  the  Union  Pacific  tracks. 
Then  he  went  by  streets  most  of  which  were  unpaved. 
Here,  except  for  the  lights  of  his  car,  he  was  in  almost 
total  darkness  and  splashing  through  mud.  There 
were  stretches  of  empty  lots.  He  passed  only  an  occa- 
sional house,  or,  rather,  laborer's  shack. 

At  the  intersection  of  two  streets  he  extinguished  the 
lights,  feeling  his  way  along  rather  than  driving,  for 
a  few  more  straggling  blocks — until  there  loomed  be- 
fore him  a  black  mass,  a  group  of  Cottonwood  trees 
cresting  a  bank.  Here  he  turned  into  a  wagon  road, 
plowing  his  way  through  mud  for  a  short  distance, 
then  stopped.  The  grove  offered  a  black  background 
for  the  machine;  by  no  chance  could  it  be  seen  from 
the  street. 

He  skirted  the  grove  and  came  upon  the  rear  of  a 
small  house  that  faced  the  next  street.  He  stood  for 
a  time,  listening,  with  ear  to  the  window-ledge,  then 
rapped  on  the  window,  three  raps  punctuated  by  in- 
tervals. Some  one  within  gave  the  same  signal,  and 
then  the  back  door  opened  upon  darkness. 


SOLDIERS    OF    FORTUNE  27 

The  chauffeur  kept  his  distance.  "Sempre — "  he 
said  softly. 

"Per  sempre /'  was  the  answer. 

Townley  felt  his  way  to  the  door,  then,  and  though 
he  miscalculated  the  step  and  stumbled,  he  gathered 
himself  up  without  an  exclamation.  He  stood  in 
silence  and  pitch  darkness  until  the  door  was  shut  and 
locked  behind  him  and  a  gas-jet  flickered  into  a  cau- 
tious gleam,  barely  sufficient  to  distinguish  objects  in 
the  room,  a  gas  stove,  a  table  and  chairs,  and  the  slight 
dark  man  who  admitted  him. 

He  peered  at  Townley's  dripping  figure :  "You 
chose  a  safe  enough  night,"  he  said  in  Italian. 

"I  seized  an  opportunity — I've  something  to  tell  you. 
.  .  .  But,  first — have  you  any  whisky,  Mortola?" 
He  also  spoke  in  Italian. 

"Si." 

"Give  me  some,  then — and  some  hot  water.  I'm  wet 
almost  to  my  middle,  and  my  leg  pains  me." 

He  sat  down  at  the  table  and  stretched  his  leg  to  ease 
it,  his  face  twisting  with  pain.  "Damn  that  English- 
man's bullet !"  he  said,  and  then,  with  cockney  fluency, 
cursed  the  entire  nation. 

The  man  he  called  Mortola  chuckled  softly  as  he 
lighted  the  stove  and  drew  water  for  the  kettle.  He 
brought  a  flask  from  an  inner  room  and  set  it  and  a 
cracked  cup  before  the  chauffeur. 

"I  see  they  have  put  on  gas  for  you  and  turned  on 
the  water,"  Townley  remarked  next. 

"I  had  to  have  both.    Fortunately  the  gas-pipe  comes 


28  THE   TIGERS   COAT 

through  the  wall,  so  I  have  been  able  to  put  an  attach- 
ment carrying  it  into  the  inner  room  without  its  being 
discovered  from  below,  or  from  this  room — best  to  be 
careful  about  such  small  things."  Though  he  spoke 
with  a  slight  accent,  his  English  was  quite  as  fluent  as 
Townley's;  it  lacked  entirely  Townley's  cockney 
twang. 

"It's  a  good  location.  Just  the  place  a  dago  would 
choose — within  easy  reach  of  the  plant." 

"I  searched  all  over  South  Laclasse  before  I  found 
it — as  you  know,"  Mortola  said.  "My  Italian  neigh- 
bors are  not  near  enough  to  overlook  me,  and  yet  not 
so  far  away  that  I  might  seem  to  be  looking  for  seclu- 
sion. Like  myself,  most  of  them  are  going  to  be  taken 
on  at  the  plant.  I  have  made  friends  with  them — I 
pass  for  one  of  their  own  kind,  a  frugal  dago.  I  have 
already  begun  to  cultivate  a  garden  patch  here,  in  the 
rear.  There  is  my  supper  of  macaroni,  strong  enough 
of  garlic  for  any  ditch-digger.  If  I  should  be  raided, 
it  is  all  they  would  find — traces  of  the  Italian  laborer 
everywhere." 

"You  may  have  to  keep  at  it  a  little  longer  than  we 
expected,"  Townley  said. 

His  companion  came  close,  his  sallow  face  suddenly 
darkened  by  concern.  "What  has  happened  ?"  he  asked 
quickly. 

"Sit  down  while  I  tell  you.  See  what  you  make  of 
it." 

They  sat  with  their  heads  together,  whispering  in 
Italian.     "It  appears  a  small  thing,"  Townley  said, 


SOLDIERS    OF    FORTUNE  29 

"and  yet  it  may  not  be.  .  .  .  To-night  MacAllis- 
ter  had  the  banker,  Bagsby,  with  him  for  dinner.  There 
was  the  usual  talk — MacAllister  was  bitter  against  An- 
drew Kraup — but  the  main  thing  of  interest  I  over- 
heard was  that  MacAllister  has  still  another  order — 
every  reason  for  pushing  work  at  the  plant.  .  .  . 
What  happened  was  this :  a  little  after  ten  o'clock  the 
door-bell  rang,  and  when  I  opened  there  stood  a  girl 
dripping  from  the  rain,  in  poor  clothes  and  carrying 
a  bundle.  She  has  a  face  more  hollow-cheeked  and  sal- 
lower  than  yours,  Mortola,  and  eyes  light  and  very 
wide  apart — a  strange  face.  Had  it  not  been  for  her 
strange  look,  I  think  it  would  instantly  have  occurred 
to  me  that  she  was  a  refugee.,, 

"Ah—"  Mortola  said. 

"But  it  did  not — not  till  she  had  spoken.  The  mo- 
ment I  stood  before  her,  she  demanded  to  see  Mac- 
Allister, and,  Mortola,  in  Italian!" 

"And  you,  Bersanio  ?" 

The  chauffeur  showed  his  white  teeth  in  a  grin. 
"And  I  answered — not  in  Italian,  my  dear  Mortola,  as 
your  alarm  suggests,  but  in  the  language  of  the  English 
butler  who  does  not  understand !" 

"Good  for  you,  Bersanio !    .    .    .    But  what  then?" 

"She  made  her  demand  then  in  English,  the  English 
of  an  educated  foreigner;  but  when  I  refused  to  admit 
her,  declaring  that  my  master  was  engaged  with  com- 
pany, she  lost  all  patience  and  flared  at  me  in  French, 
as  if  that  were  her  most  natural  tongue.  I,  of  course, 
did  not  understand  French,  either,  and  she  was  forced 


30  THE   TIGERS   COAT 

to  return  to  English,  but  her  French  is  fluent — of  that 
I  was  given  sufficient  proof — and  certainly  she  glared 
at  me  as  if  she  suspected  me  of  some  imposture.' ' 

"Urn!    A  French  girl,  then?" 

"She  gives  more  the  impression  of  a  mongrel/1 
Townley  said.  "Her  features  remind  me  of  the  South 
Americans  one  sees  in  Paris.  If  she  is  French,  there 
is  other  blood  also.  .  .  .  But,  remember,  I  saw 
her  only  with  hat  dripping  about  her  face." 

"Possibly  a  French  spy  in  disguise  ?" 

"I  do  not  think  so.  I  managed  to  have  a  few  min- 
utes in  the  hall  up-stairs,  after  he  had  led  her  up  to  her 
bedroom,  and  the  talk  was  of  her  sufferings  in  Bel- 
gium. Besides,  her  exhaustion  was  too  real.  She 
looks  starved  and  ill." 

Mortola  considered  for  a  moment,  then  he  asked, 
"How  did  he  receive  her?" 

"She  was  utterly  unexpected — that  is  certain.  He 
looked  with  bewilderment  upon  the  letter  she  sent  in 
by  me,  and  the  instant  it  was  read,  leaped  out  of  the 
room  and  hastened  to  her.  He  took  her  hand,  they 
talked,  and  then  he  led  her  up-stairs,  his  arm  about  her. 
No,  she  was  unexpected,  but  certainly  some  one  he  has 
known." 

"He  appeared  fond,  then?" 

"Perhaps — he  was  certainly  greatly  concerned.  The 
Chinaman  was  set  to  cooking  for  her.  I  took  the  tray, 
but  the  Chinaman  took  it  away  from  me — he  had  been 
given  his  orders.  It  was  evident  that  MacAllister  was 
angry  with  me  for  having  refused  her  admission." 


SOLDIERS    OF   FORTUNE  31 

"He  treated  her,  then,  as  one  would  a  relation?" 

"Quite  so." 

Mortola  considered  again  for  a  time ;  then  he  said : 
"Now  tell  it  all  to  me  again — give  every  detail." 

The  chauffeur's  tale  was  substantially  the  same. 
When  he  had  finished,  Mortola  shrugged.  "I  think 
there  is  nothing  in  it,"  he  said.  "I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  she  is  some  connection  of  MacAllister's  who  has 
thrown  herself  on  his  mercy.  The  only  suspicious 
thing  is  her  instantly  taking  you  for  an  Italian.  You 
say  the  light  of  the  vestibule  shone  full  on  your  face 
as  you  stood  before  her;  if  she  is  well  acquainted  with 
Italian  types  it  is  natural  she  should  take  you  for  an 
Italian.  Almost  any  American,  judging  you  by  your 
features  and  coloring,  would  be  satisfied  that  you  were 
English;  still,  to  one  who  knows  the  rarer  type  of 
Italian,  you  would  suggest  the  Italian.  Hers  was  an 
involuntary  deduction.  It  is  a  little  surprising  that 
your  answer  was  not  an  involuntary  one  also.  It  was 
a  good  test."    He  spoke  with  a  degree  of  satisfaction. 

"It  was  quite  plain  she  had  no  faith  in  me — she  may 
tell  MacAllister  that  she  thinks  me  Italian.  You  know 
how  carefully  I  have  concealed  the  fact  from  him.  We 
thought  it  best  that  I  should  appear  to  have  no  sort  of 
connection  with  this  crowd  of  Italians  he  is  taking  on 
at  the  plant.  I  hired  myself  to  him  as  an  Englishman 
and  accounted  for  both  my  father  and  mother;  Mac- 
Allister is  not  one  to  forgive  a  deception." 

"And  who  is  there  to  gainsay  you?  A  girl's  suspi- 
cion?   Poof!    According  to  you,  MacAllister  has  the 


32  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

average  man's  weakness  for  the  feminine,  but  there  is 
no  woman  who  rules  him.  There  is  no  woman  who 
has  even  succeeded  in  marrying  him.  .  .  .  You 
have  lived  in  London  longer  than  anywhere  else — and 
starved  there — as  I  did.  We  owe  allegiance  to  no 
country,  my  dear  Bersanio;  we  are  soldiers  of  fortune. 
What  does  it  matter  to  us  whether  an  American  labor 
interest,  or  some  other  hand,  feeds  us?  We  simply 
utilize  conditions." 

"Nevertheless,  Mortola,  it  is  well  to  remember  that 
MacAllister  has  eyes  on  all  sides  of  his  head.  You 
have  had  proof  of  how  carefully  he  is  guarding  his 
plant — not  a  single  Austrian  engaged  and  the  record 
of  every  man  he  has  taken  on  examined." 

Mortola  smiled.  "Yes,  and  the  unemployed  Aus- 
trians  hot  over  their  exclusion.  That  has  proved  a 
fortunate  circumstance  for  us.  .  .  .  No,  I  do  not 
take  seriously  this  incident  that  has  troubled  you. 
MacAllister  is  suspicious,  as  you  say,  but  he  is  also  a 
little  pig-headed  in  his  likes  and  dislikes,  and  he  has 
given  proofs  that  he  trusts  you.  He  is  satisfied  in  his 
mind  about  you;  he  would  simply  tell  her  that  she  is 
mistaken.  .  .  .  But  I  purpose  to  be  careful.  We 
must  find  out  exactly  who  this  girl  is,  and  why  she  is 
here.  If  she  came  from  France  there  will  be  a  record 
of  her.  I  wish  to  see  her,  close  enough  to  hear  her 
voice — can  that  be  managed?" 

"Easily,  if  he  keeps  her  in  his  house." 

"But  he  will  not  do  that,  surely  ?  Not  even  for  this 
night — there,  with  only  the  Chinaman !" 


SOLDIERS    OF    FORTUNE  33 

"It  is  evidently  what  he  purposes,  else  he  would  have 
wanted  the  limousine.  He  wanted  neither  me  nor  the 
machine.     He  is  keeping  her  there.,, 

"Urn!  That  act  may  be  of  value,"  Mortola  re- 
marked, with  the  keenness  of  the  practical  intriguer. 
"It  might  be  made  the  foundation  of  an  unpalatable 
story  which  we  could  use  if  we  saw  fit.  Of  course, 
any  one  who  knows  how  to  go  about  it  can  have  her 
French  record  looked  up — that  is  not  difficult — I  can 
do  that  with  ease — but  not  every  one  has  our  oppor- 
tunity to  make  discoveries  here.  Better  for  you  to 
get  back  to  the  house  as  soon  as  possible  and  learn 
what  you  can.  .  .  .  And,  Bersanio,  arrange  as 
soon  as  possible  that  I  see  her.  In  less  than  three 
weeks  I  shall  be  employed  at  the  plant,  and  I  want  to 
see  her  by  daylight,  and  close.  .  .  .  To  photo- 
graph her  would  be  the  thing." 

"I  shall  watch  for  an  opportunity,  and  let  you  know. 
.     .     .     Now,  is  there  anything  else?" 

"Watch  MacAllister's  manner  to  you,  keenly.  As 
long  as  he  trusts  you,  your  place  is  with  him." 

"I  will  be  off,  then."  The  chauffeur  rose,  catching 
his  breath  as  he  did  so,  cursing  from  pain.    "Ah,  — 


The  sooner  I  get  off  these  wet  things  the  better 
.  .  .  But  first  show  me  the  inner  room.  I  should 
like  to  see  how  you  have  arranged  your  hiding-place.' 
Mortola  lighted  a  candle.  He  opened  a  door  then 
and  led  the  way  into  what  appeared  to  be  a  small 
poorly  furnished  bedroom.  He  held  the  candle  high 
and  either  its  wavering  flame  or  an  actual  smile  twisted 


34  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

his  dark  features.  "You  are  an  adept,  friend  Ber- 
sanio ;  search  now,  sound  the  floor  and  the  walls ;  take 
your  time.  If  your  skill  can  make  any  discovery,  I 
stand  indebted  to  you." 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

MacALLISTER  started  out  early  the  next  morn- 
ing from  Laclasse.  He  chose  to  take  the  Belle- 
vue  car  and  not  his  automobile  for  his  excursion  into 
the  country. 

As  he  climbed  the  steep  hill,  on  the  other  side  of 
which  the  conductor  told  him  he  would  find  the  Men- 
dall  house,  he  observed  his  surroundings  critically.  He 
knew  that  to  the  south,  on  the  level,  nearer  the  river, 
was  the  village  of  Bellevue,  and  in  the  intervening 
space  there  must  be  an  occasional  house,  though  there 
was  not  a  single  roof  visible.  Mendall  had  certainly 
succeeded  in  isolating  himself.  This  was  real  coun- 
try. 

When  he  reached  the  crown  of  the  hill,  MacAllister 
paused  to  look  about  him.  He  was  in  a  grove  of  oaks 
interspersed  with  tall  cottonwoods.  Evidently  it  was 
the  Mendall  house  that  showed  now  through  the  trees. 
MacAllister  understood  why  a  poor  artist  might  choose 
this  down-river  location  for  a  home,  even  though  to 
reach  it  he  must  cross  the  unlovely  stock-yard  and  pack- 
ing district  of  South  Laclasse.  The  growth  of  South 
Laclasse,  its  smokestacks,  cattle-yards,  and  its  streets 

35 


36  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

of  foreign  laborers'  shacks  had  killed  the  possibility 
of  this  ever  being  a  fashionable  suburb. 

It  was  a  pity,  for  there  was  beauty  here,  a  succession 
of  hills  and  ravines,  with  glimpses  on  the  one  hand 
of  the  great,  rolling  Nebraska  prairie,  greened  by  corn 
and  wheat  and  successive  harvests  of  alfalfa,  and  on 
the  other  hand  an  outlook  over  the  wide  yellow  curves 
of  the  Missouri,  its  circling  arms  cast  about  willowed 
islands,  its  yellow  fingers  indenting  the  dun-colored 
flats.  And  all  viewed  from  leafy  heights,  for  the  hills 
here  were  for  the  most  part  heavily  wooded,  and  the 
ravines  a  tangle  of  growth.  The  April  green  that  now 
tinted  even  the  frailest  twig  was  promise  of  summer 
abundance.  Beautiful  surroundings  and  isolation,  and 
not  far  from  the  city  limits. 

But  as  he  came  on  MacAllister  noted  soberly  the 
smallness  and  plainness  of  the  Mendall  house.  It  was 
only  a  story  and  a  half,  with  a  narrow  porch  crossing 
its  front.  And  the  little  room  in  which  the  Mendalls' 
mulatto  maid  left  him  while  she  went  to  call  her  mis- 
tress was  certainly  unattractive.  There  were  a  few 
cold-looking  pen-and-ink  sketches  on  the  walls,  a  few 
books,  a  table  and  some  chairs;  a  Puritan  looking 
place.  It  remained  to  be  seen  whether  the  mistress 
of  the  house  was  of  the  same  uncompromising  order. 


VI 

MRS.  MENDALL 

BUT  Mrs.  Mendall,  when  she  appeared,  was  a  dis- 
tinct surprise.  She  was  a  little,  shapely  woman, 
round,  firm,  brown-haired  and  brown-browed,  with  a 
beautifully  fair  skin;  the  pink  of  her  cheeks  and  lips 
was  so  evidently  natural,  as  natural  as  the  sky-blue  of 
her  eyes,  steady  eyes  that  took  instant  note  of  Mac- 
Allister.  She  was  gowned  as  MacAllister  thought  any 
busy  housewife  should  be  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, in  a  neat  cotton  dress,  white  apron,  and  crowning 
the  entire  effect,  a  white  cap.  With  its  knot  of  blue 
ribbon  it  was  a  coquettish  adjunct,  and  vastly  becom- 
ing, MacAllister  thought.  He  liked  her  type ;  she  sug- 
gested the  attractively  maternal. 

Her  eyes  widened  when  she  saw  him,  and  MacAllis- 
ter knew  instantly  that  she  recognized  him;  probably 
she  had  seen  him  in  Laclasse;  he  was  very  certain  he 
had  never  seen  her  before. 

"Mrs.  Mendall,  ye  probably  know  this  is  Mr.  Mac- 
Allister from  Laclasse,"  he  said,  "and  I'd  best  begin 
by  asking  pardon  for  troubling  ye  at  this  hour  in  the 
morning." 

"It  is  no  trouble,  Mr.  MacAllister.  We  are  early 
risers  in  the  country." 

37 


38  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

MacAllister  received  an  instant  impression  of  re- 
finement. Her  voice  was  sweet.  Like  her  husband, 
she  sounded  her  vowels  broadly;  to  western  ears  her 
speech  appeared  a  little  affected. 

"Then  I'm  forgiven.  I'm  an  incurably  early  riser 
myself.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Mendall,  I've  been  told  your 
husband  has  some  paintings  he'll  sell — is  that  so  ?" 

At  the  first  sight  of  him  the  pink  in  her  cheeks  had 
deepened;  he  detected  now  the  slight  catch  in  her 
breath:    "Yes—" 

"A  number  of  them?" 

"There  are  several,"  she  said  guardedly. 

MacAllister  knew  more  about  Carl  Mendall  than  he 
had  chosen  to  impart  to  Frederick  Bagsby  the  evening 
before.  He  knew  that  the  artist  was  utterly  unbusi- 
nesslike. In  that  one  sentence  of  Mrs.  Mendall's  he 
learned  both  that  she  was  anxious  to  sell,  and  that  she 
stood  guard  over  her  impractical  young  husband.  He 
guessed  also  that  she  found  it  no  easy  undertaking. 

"I'm  looking  for  paintings — for  my  new  house," 
MacAllister  said.  "I  need  a  number;  could  I  see  what 
Mr.  Mendall  has?" 

She  hesitated.  "Mr.  Mendall  is  not  here  this  morn- 
ing— he  is  in  Laclasse.  Still — perhaps  I  could  show 
them  to  you." 

MacAllister  knew  perfectly  well  that  Mendall  would 
be  at  the  schools;  he  had  purposely  chosen  the  morn- 
ing. "If  ye  will  be  so  kind."  MacAllister's  slight 
Scotch  accent  became  more  marked  when  he  talked  to 
a  woman.     "If  Mr.  MacAllister  ever  makes  love — 


MRS.    MENDALL  39 

which  I  very  much  doubt,"  Clare  Bagsby  had  once  re- 
marked, "it  certainly  is  in  broad  Scotch." 

Mrs.  Mendall  smiled  reservedly.  "Some  of  them 
are  in  the  studio — if  you  will  come  with  me — " 

She  led  the  way  into  the  hall,  to  a  door  that  evidently 
opened  into  a  room  at  the  rear  of  the  house.  But  there 
she  paused,  her  finger  to  her  lips,  like  a  child  consid- 
ering, MacAllister  thought.  "Perhaps  we  had  better 
go  down  to  the  living-room  first;  the  landscapes  are 
there,"  and  she  turned  to  the  stairway,  wide  easy  steps 
that  led  to  the  basement. 

But  it  was  not  in  any  sense  a  basement  room  into 
which  they  came.  It  was  a  charming  place,  a  long 
room,  evidently  living-room  and  dining-room  com- 
bined, with  French  windows  opening  upon  a  terrace. 
MacAllister  now  saw  that  the  house  had  an  extra  story 
in  the  rear.  The  hillside  sloped  so  steeply  into  the 
ravine  below  that  the  house  literally  clung  to  the  ter- 
race for  support.  Beyond  the  ravine  meadow-land 
lifted  till  it  touched  the  crown  of  the  hill  opposite. 
Against  the  sky-line  were  the  twin  oaks  which  gave 
the  hill  its  name.  Twin  Oaks  Hill  was  the  highest 
point  in  all  the  surrounding  country. 

"Who'd  think  it!"  MacAllister  exclaimed.     "It's  a 
beautiful  place  ye  have  here." 

Mrs.  Mendall  looked  pleased.    "We  turn  a  modest 
face  to  our  callers." 

"Ye  do  that!    And  what's  above  this,  then?" 

"My  husband's  studio,  our  bedroom,  and  the  little 
room  in  which  you  were." 


40  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"And  clear  up?" 

"There  are  three  bedrooms  up  there.  The  large 
room  in  the  back  has  a  wonderful  view  of  the  hills  and 
the  river." 

MacAllister  made  a  mental  note  of  the  room  with 
the  view.    "Ye  surprise  me.    It's  quite  a  house." 

"These  are  some  of  Mr.  Mendall's  paintings,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  suggested. 

The  wall  above  the  paneling  was  hung  with  them. 
MacAllister  saw  that  they  were  most  of  them  desert 
scenes.  He  knew  the  desert  well.  Some  were  of  the 
jungle,  vividly  suggestive  of  steaming  heat.  There 
was  one  of  the  Seine  with  the  moon  hung  above  Notre 
Dame. 

If  Mendall's  work  was  crude,  MacAllister  did  not 
detect  it.  He  felt  its  power,  and  sensed  the  mastery  of 
color.  He  walked  the  length  of  the  room  several  times, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  examining  each  painting  in 
turn.  "They're  g-r-e-(P-t,"  he  said  finally,  with  slow 
emphasis  on  the  word.  His  admiration  was  genuine 
enough. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  paled  a  little  as  she  watched  him. 
The  sale  of  those  paintings  meant  so  much  to  her;  so 
very  much.  And  she  was  intensely  interested  in  her 
caller.  She  remembered  him  well — in  spite  of  the 
changes  twenty  years  had  made.  He  was  heavier,  not 
fat,  he  was  too  ruggedly  built  for  that ;  he  was  simply 
more  solidly  muscled.  His  irregular- featured  face, 
with  its  pronounced  nose,  high  cheek-bones  and  heavy 
sandy  brows,  was  lined;  there  were  folds  about  his 


MRS.    MENDALL  41 

large  tight-lipped  mouth.  His  eyes  were  sandy,  like 
his  hair,  like  his  brows.  But  he  had  lost  his  fair  tint- 
ing; as  if  years  of  desert  wind  and  sun  had  dried  and 
tanned  his  skin  to  an  ineradicable  brown. 

"This  is  Mexican  desert  he's  painted,"  he  remarked. 
"I  know  it  well.    What's  the  jungle?" 

"That  is  Mexican  also." 

"Not  the  hot  lands?" 

"Yes,  the  Isthmus  of  Tehuantepec." 

"The  devil's  hothouse,  eh !  So  yer  husband's  been 
down  there !  I  know  Northern  Mexico — about  as  well 
as  I  know  Laclasse — but  I've  never  been  south  of  Vera 
Cruz.     .     .     I  know  those  who  have,  though." 

"Mr.  Mendall  was  three  years  in  Mexico." 

"Really!     He  can  speak  Spanish,  then." 

"Mexican  Spanish,"  she  said,  smiling.  "He  says 
there  is  a  difference." 

"Yes,  it's  polyglot.  .  .  .  And  now  may  I  see 
'what's  in  the  studio  ?" 


VII 


THE  STUDIO 


THE  studio  ran  the  full  length  of  the  house,  with 
almost  its  whole  front  glazed,  and  with  casement 
windows  at  each  end.  The  canvases  here  were  large, 
and  MacAllister  saw  at  a  glance  were  nearly  all  studies 
of  the  nude.  If  MacAllister  had  had  any  knowledge 
of  art,  he  would  instantly  have  realized  that  Carl  Men- 
dall  would  some  day  paint  the  nude  wonderfully.  He 
lacked  in  technique,  as  yet,  but  his  flesh  tints  were 
arresting ;  he  had  subtle  feeling  for  color. 

MacAllister  knew  now  why  Mrs.  Mendall  had  hesi- 
tated at  the  studio  door;  she  had  been  afraid  he  would 
not  like  these  productions  of  her  husband's.  She  stood 
aside  while  he  looked  at  them  in  an  expressionless  way. 
He  did  not  like  them.  He  had  a  feeling  of  relief  when 
he  came  upon  Mrs.  Bagsby's  portrait.  He  studied  it 
critically.  The  banker's  wife  certainly  had  claims  to 
beauty;  an  almost  perfect  profile,  a  small,  beautifully 
shaped  head  banded  with  dark  hair,  a  slim  neck,  and  a 
long  body  adapted  to  drapery. 

MacAllister  turned  next  to  a  small  painting  of  Bags- 
by's  daughter,  simply  the  head  and  shoulders.  Hers 
was  a  curious  face ;  the  long  upper  lip  and  full  f orma- 

42 


THE    STUDIO  43 

tion  of  jaw  suggested  the  soft  muzzle  of  an  animal. 
Mendall  had  done  justice  to  what  beauty  she  pos- 
sessed, her  pleasant  expression,  clear  skin  and  really 
beautiful  dark  red  hair. 

But  Mac  Alii  ster  had  come  to  inspect  Mendall' s  sal- 
able paintings,  so  with  a  touch  of  determination  he 
returned  to  an  examination  of  the  nude.  Mendall  evi- 
dently liked  to  paint  the  untamed.  He  had  painted  the 
Indian  and  the  half-breed.  The  little  dusky-skinned 
boy  who  nursed  a  snake  on  his  warm  knee  was  a  half- 
breed,  a  half-breed  Yaqui,  MacAllister  thought.  He 
had  nobler  features  than  is  usual  with  the  Mexican 
admixtures.  The  half-naked  girl,  kneeling  before  a 
Mexican  cook-house  fire,  rubbing  tortilla  paste  on  a 
stone  metate,  was  frankly  a  savage. 

She  was  no  Red  Indian,  and  certainly  not  a  Mexi- 
can. Possibly  in  the  long  past  a  vessel  from  across 
the  Pacific  had  stranded  on  the  Mexican  coast,  and 
the  dull  yellow  of  the  Mongolian  had  commingled  with 
aboriginal  blood,  and  there  had  evolved  this  woman 
with  skin  the  hue  of  molten  gold,  and  the  long,  straight 
black  hair  and  boldly  regular  features  of  the  pure- 
blood  Indian.  There  were  rich  hues  in  this  girl's 
coloring;  slim,  firm-bosomed,  warm-lipped,  she  was  a 
creature  of  voluptuous  promise.  MacAllister  knew  the 
muddy-skinned,  flat- featured  Mexican  Indian  exceed- 
ingly well ;  he  had  never  seen  the  like  of  this  creature. 

He  turned  about  to  where  Mrs.  Mendall  stood  ob- 
serving him.  "That's  a  plantation  cook-house,  but 
she's  not  a  Mexican?"  he  observed. 


44  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

"She  is  a  pure-blood  Tehuana," 

"Ah,  I  see." 

"It  is  an  Isthmus  tribe.  The  women  are  some  of 
them  good-looking."  Unconsciously  she  expressed  the 
tolerant  contempt  of  the  civilized  woman  for  the  primi- 
tive. 

In  MacAllister's  shrug  there  was  the  repulsion  which 
the  Anglo-Saxon  feels  for  any  admixture  that  sug- 
gests the  black  man.  "I  shouldn't  care  to  buy  her. 
Why  paint  such  a  thing?" 

With  the  loyalty  to  her  mate  inherent  in  woman,  be 
she  savage  or  cultured,  Mrs.  Mendall  flew  to  the  sup- 
port of  her  husband.  She  was  aroused  by  the  raw  dis- 
gust MacAllister  had  expressed. 

"You  are  not  an  artist,  so  you  can  not  understand 
what  Carl  found  so  wonderfully  paintable  in  that  girl. 
Art  is  the  worship  of  perfection,  isn't  it?  And  she  is 
an  almost  perfect  human  animal."  She  stumbled  a 
little  in  her  next  assertion :  "And — and  the  fact  that 
she  is  an  Indian  does  not  argue  that  she  is  without 
fine  human  qualities.  The — one  of  the  best  friends  I 
ever  had,  had  a  few  drops  of  black  blood  in  her  veins." 

MacAllister's  retort  was  like  a  flash  of  steel. 
"Friend!  Just  like  ye  are  friend  to  the  heathen,  I'll 
be  bound !  It  would  have  taken  force  to  make  ye  bunk 
with  her,  now — wouldn't  it?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  silent.  She  met  the  flare  in  his 
eye  for  a  startled  second,  then  she  looked  down,  grow- 
ing crimson. 

MacAllister's  heat  died.     He  studied  her  averted 


THE    STUDIO  45 

face  for  a  moment,  keenly.  She  looked  frightened, 
and  no  wonder;  he  had  some  conception  of  how  he 
had  looked.  He  had  certainly  not  made  a  pleasant 
impression  on  her.  She  disliked  him.  He  had  felt 
that  from  the  beginning. 

He  apologized.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Mendall. 
I've  a  devil  of  a  temper,  and  the  prejudices  of — well, 
of  a  pig-headed  white  man  with  a  Scotch  Presbyterian 
rearing.  And  top  of  it  all  I've  evidently  acquired  a 
cowboy's  manners.     ...     I  beg  your  pardon." 

"I  shouldn't  have  said  what  I  did,  when  I  knew  that 
— that  what  you  accuse  me  of  is  true,"  she  returned 
confusedly. 

"Of  course,  it's  true.  As  true  as  that  there  are 
black  and  white  and  yellow  races,  and  that  there  is  an 
instinct,  in  the  civilized  man  at  least,  against  an  in- 
discriminate mixing.  It's  got  nothing  to  do  with  our 
sympathies,  or  our  pity,  or  our  will  in  the  matter. 
Some  haven't  the  instinct,  or  the  feeling  of  repulsion, 
or  rather  it's  not  strong  enough  to  stand  against  the  call 
of  sex.  Occasionally  there's  a  man  for  whom  the 
primitive  has  an  irresistible  attraction,  and  that  man's 
apt  to  become  a  Squaw-Man  and  stay  a  Squaw-Man. 
I've  lived  a  bit  among  mixed  peoples,  so  I've  done  some 
thinking  on  the  subject — though  it's  not  landed  me 
much  farther  than  I  was  twenty  years  ago." 

"I  feel  just  as  you  do — really." 

"Of  course  you  do.  .  .  .  And,  having  mutually 
confessed,  let  us  come  to  business.  Mrs.  Mendall,  I 
think  I  want  to  buy  these  paintings  of  your  husband's 


46  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

i — that  is,  of  course,  supposing  he  wants  to  part  with 
them." 

Mrs.  Mendall's  eyes  widened  as  they  had  when  she 
first  saw  him  standing  solidly  in  her  little  reception 
room.    "You  mean  all  of  them?" 

"Most  of  them — all  but  the  Indians.  .  .  .  What's 
your  wish  in  the  matter?" 

She  was  evidently  excited,  though  she  tried  to  hide 
it.    "I — why,  I  should  have  to  consult  Mr.  Mendall." 

"Of  course.  You  must  take  time  to  consult  and 
decide.  Put  your  price  on  each  picture,  and  then  give 
me  the  sum  total." 

From  his  air  he  might  be  buying  wheat,  Mrs.  Men- 
dall reflected,  and  she  rose  to  her  husband's  defense. 
"Mr.  Mendall's  work  is  really  very  good,"  she  said. 
"He  has  had  gratifying  notices  on  the  things  he  has 
exhibited,  and  he  has  sold  quite  a  number.  But  you 
see,"  and  the  anxious  lines  showed  in  her  brow,  "he 
is  unknown,  and  his  things  are  so  out  of  the  ordinary 
that  they  are  not  always  understood.  And  he  does 
not  have  the  faculty  of  pushing  himself.  Then  he  has 
been  so  hampered  by  teaching.  He  is  stranded  here 
in  Laclasse.  He  needs  a  year  or  two  abroad  in  order 
to  perfect  himself.  He  needs  to  be  free  to  do  his  best." 
Her  voice  deepened.  "If  we  part  with  these  paintings, 
in  bulk,  as  you  suggest,  it  will  be  with  that  object  in 
view.  I  would  sacrifice  a  good  deal  to  make  a  great 
artist  of  Carl." 

She  spoke  as  a  mother  would  of  her  dearly  loved 


THE    STUDIO  47 

son.  She  was  evidently  a  restrained  little  woman.  She 
had  let  herself  go  somewhat,  and  was  warmly  flushed. 
MacAllister  liked  her.  She  was  so  humanly  whole- 
some, and  as  pretty  as  any  woman  need  be.  He  judged 
that  she  was  a  few  years  older  than  her  husband. 

"That's  all  very  true,  and  your  husband  ought  to 
have  his  chance,"  he  agreed.  "But  there'll  be  no  Paris 
for  anybody  for  a  good  many  months  to  come.  Ye 
should  save  for  it  in  the  meantime.  .  .  .  Now  I 
have  an  idea  that  I'll  leave  with  ye  to  consider:  I  have 
a  ward,  a  young  girl,  that  I  want  a  temporary  home 
for.  She's  an  orphan  and  a  kinswoman  of  mine.  Her 
father  lived  for  a  number  of  years  in  Mexico.  She's 
lived  abroad  for  most  of  her  life,  that  is,  up  to  the 
breaking  of  the  war.  She's  here  now.  I  could  send 
her  to  school,  but  that's  not  what  I  want  for  her. 
She's  very  foreign.  I  want  her  to  be  in  an  American 
home,  with  some  sensible,  well-bred  woman  like  your- 
self. And  I  want  the  quiet  of  the  country  for  her. 
She  says  she  can  draw — I'd  like  to  have  Mr.  Mendall 
give  her  lessons ;  it'll  be  occupation  for  her." 

Mrs.  Mendall  looked  at  him  blankly,  so  complete 
was  her  surprise.  Then  there  lifted  in  her  eyes  some 
sudden  understanding.  "You  say  she  is  foreign — she 
is  not  all  Scotch,  then?" 

"You  mean  she's  part  Mexican?"  MacAllister  said 
quickly.  "She's  not,  indeed !  There's  not  a  drop  of 
Indian  blood  in  her.  Her  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman, 
and  of  gude  family." 


48  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"I  have  never  taken  any  one  into  our  home,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  objected,  much  disturbed. 

"And  yer  right  to  consider  that — it's  not  so  pleasant 
a  thing  to  do.  But  I  think  I  can  say  for  my  ward  that 
she'll  give  ye  no  trouble  at  all.  She's  been  ill,  puir 
child.  She's  seen  some  of  the  horrors  of  war.  One 
of  the  relief  societies  sent  her  to  Mexico  a  few  months 
ago  in  search  of  her  relatives.  She  had  fever  there, 
and  lay  at  death's  door.  She's  weak  yet  from  it.  Then 
this  climate's  done  about  the  worst  it  could  for  her 
— it'll  take  time  to  rid  her  of  the  cough  she  has.  She's 
too  nearly  done  to  give  anybody  trouble." 

"There  is  so  little  I  could  do  for  an  invalid.  I  have 
only  an  incompetent  mulatto  maid,  so  I  am  forced  to 
do  much  of  my  own  work."  It  was  plain  she  was 
tempted,  yet  hesitant. 

"I've  had  the  doctor,  so  I  can  assure  ye  she  is  not 
ill,"  MacAllister  said  positively.  "It's  simply  that  she 
has  gone  through  a  long  time  of  anxiety  and  privation. 
This  quiet  place  is  the  medicine  she  needs,  and  I'll  be 
more  than  willing  to  pay  well  both  for  her  keep,  and 
for  her  lessons." 

"How  old  is  your  ward?"  Mrs.  Mendall  asked. 

"Eighteen,  though  she  looks  a  bit  older,  and  no 
wonder,  considering  what  she's  been  through." 

"I  must  have  time  to  think,"  she  said,  with  more 
decision.    "I  must  consult  with  my  husband." 

She  was  hedging,  but  MacAllister  felt  certain  he 
had  won.    "Of  course.    Talk  it  over,  and  when  ye've 


THE    STUDIO  49 

decided  we'll  see  about  the  paintings.  .  .  .  Only  will 
ye  kindly  let  me  know  as  soon  as  possible  ?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  understood  perfectly:  if  they  took  the 
stranger  in,  the  paintings  were  sold.  Alexander  Mac- 
Allister  was  striking  a  bargain,  and,  as  usual,  with  the 
advantage  on  his  side.  He  was  a  hard  shrewd  man; 
she  did  not  like  him. 

Mrs.  Mendall's  smile,  though  it  brought  into  play 
the  dimple  in  her  cheek,  did  not  warm  her  eyes.  It 
had  been  a  hard  struggle  throughout  the  three  years 
of  her  married  life.  If  only  Carl  had  a  little  of  this 
man's  shrewdness,  and  the  close  bargaining  had  not 
always  been  left  to  her.  But  Carl  was  as  he  was,  and 
the  arrangement  at  least  offered  a  release  from  condi- 
tions that  had  become  unbearable. 

She  went  out  to  the  porch  with  her  caller  and  stood 
there,  smiling,  as  long  as  there  was  any  chance  of  his 
turning  to  observe  her.  She  made  a  pretty  picture  in 
the  sunshine,  MacAllister  thought,  as  he  glanced  back. 
A  brave  little  woman  and  a  wise  one,  evidently.  He 
guessed  that  she  was  near  tears  as  she  stood  there 
determinedly  showing  the  dimple  in  her  cheek.  It  was 
a  shame  that  Mrs.  Bagsby  had  chosen  to  invade  that 
household.  And  the  deviltry  of  the  woman,  to  use  her 
stepdaughter  as  a  cover  for  her  own  flirtation !  .  .  . 
And  Bagsby  would  be  the  last  one  to  guess  just  how  the 
land  lay.    Poor  Bagsby ! 


VIII 


SO  BE  IT  THEN 


CARL  MENDALL  was  late  in  returning  that 
afternoon,  as  he  had  frequently  been  during  the 
last  few  months.  He  was  probably  spending  an  addi- 
tional half-hour  in  the  Bagsby's  drawing-room,  or 
having  been  "accidentally"  overtaken  on  his  way  from 
the  high  school  by  Mrs.  Bagsby's  car,  was  being  mo- 
tored home.  He  would  be  dropped  at  the  foot  of  Twin 
Oaks  Hill,  while  she  continued  her  favorite  ride  along 
the  boulevard.  That  had  happened  more  than  once 
before. 

Mrs.  Mendall's  face  set  when  sundown  came,  and 
still  Mendall  did  not  come.  He  always  told  her 
whether  he  had  been  sitting  before  Mrs.  Bagsby's 
fire,  or  riding  with  her  along  the  country  roads,  and 
always  as  if  prepared  to  defend  himself.  But  she  had 
never  attacked  him  by  so  much  as  an  insinuation.  If 
she  made  any  comment,  it  was  never  anything  but  a 
pleasant  one. 

For  Mrs.  Mendall  had  married  with  some  knowl- 
edge of  her  husband's  character,  as  much  as  is  vouch- 
safed to  a  woman  before  marriage,  and  three  years  of 
intimacy  had  taught  her  still  more ;  not  everything,  for 
it  takes  a  lifetime  together  to  gain  the  more  complete 

50 


"SO    BE    IT    THEN"  51 

knowledge,  and  even  then  there  may  be  much  that  is 
not  even  suspected. 

But  Mrs.  Mendall  had  watched  Carl  Mendall  grow 
into  manhood  in  the  small  New  England  town  where 
they  had  been  born.  She  was  thirty  and  he  twenty- 
five  when  they  were  married.  He  had  been  her  lover 
since  he  was  seventeen.  Even  during  the  year  when 
he  had  starved  in  Paris,  and  the  three  tumultuous  years 
in  Mexico,  his  letters  had  come  to  her  regularly.  She 
meant  something  to  him  that  no  other  woman  could 
mean;  that  was  ner  conviction;  therefore  she  had  mar- 
ried him. 

Marriage  had  done  much  to  unsettle  her  conviction, 
but  with  the  knowledge  that  she  held  possession,  she 
had  put  up  her  fight  in  her  own  determined  way.  In 
the  first  year  of  their  marriage  Mendall  had  played  in 
artist  fashion  with  a  girl  whose  lithe  grace  had  fasci- 
nated him.  It  was  at  a  little  mountain  resort  where 
the  Mendalls  were  spending  their  vacation.  Mrs.  Men- 
dall had  bitten  her  wrists  until  they  bled  in  the  parox- 
ysms of  jealousy  that  had  swept  her,  but  with  never 
a  word  to  her  husband.  The  dimple  in  her  cheek  came 
and  went  as  usual  when  in  his  presence,  and  nightly 
her  arms  circled  him,  but  that  lithe,  long-limbed  girl, 
who  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  Mendall,  had  a 
mother,  and  one  day  mother  and  daughter  packed  their 
trunks  and  departed  from  the  little  mountain  resort. 
It  was  all  done  very  quietly,  while  Mendall  was  away 
on  a  day's  hunting,  and  on  his  return  he  had  wondered 
and  questioned  in  vain. 


52  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

The  next  year,  because  Mendall  had  grown  passion- 
ately to  hate  Laclasse  and  his  teaching,  Mrs.  Men- 
dall had  urged  their  going  to  an  artist's  colony  in  the 
East.  There  he  had  been  charmed  by  a  dark-eyed 
woman  whose  dissatisfaction  over  the  prosaic  life  of 
a  dusty  western  town  had  brought  her  into  the  colony. 
The  two  had  wandered  the  woods  together  until  she 
also  had  gone  suddenly.  She  went  back  to  the  dusty 
little  town,  to  her  husband  and  her  child.  The  quiet 
force  that  was  Mrs.  Mendall  in  deadly  earnest  had 
faced  her,  and  just  what  passed  between  them  only 
Mrs.  Mendall  and  the  woman  knew.  Mendall  received 
an  incoherent  letter  in  which  the  woman  talked  of  duty 
to  her  child — that  was  all.  But  in  time  he  suspected, 
and  added  the  suspicion  to  his  slowly  broadening 
knowledge  of  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  known  for  some  time  that  an- 
other crisis  was  upon  her,  and  she  had  not  known  just 
what  to  do.  Her  husband  was  playing  with  explosives 
this  time.  It  was  true  that  Mrs.  Bagsby  was  an  adept 
at  the  game,  and  that  she  was  skilfully  interposing  her 
stepdaughter  to  save  herself  from  serious  injury. 
Frederick  Bagsby  was  a  genial  unsuspicious  man,  but 
the  sort  who  if  roused  would  act.  He  was  a  power  in 
Laclasse;  a  word  from  him  and  Mendall  would  lose 
his  place  in  the  schools.  Mrs.  Mendall  had  lived  in 
fear  of  some  such  catastrophe. 

To  argue  the  matter  with  her  husband  would  appear 
the  simplest  course,  but  that  was  what  Mrs.  Mendall 
was  least  likely  to  do.    There  was  an  ungovernable 


"SO   BE   IT   THEN"  53 

spirit  in  Carl  Mendall  that,  rasped  raw  as  he  was  by 
the  yoke  of  teaching,  might  drive  him  to  desperation. 

MacAllister's  offer  had  parted  a  little  the  black 
clouds  in  Mrs.  Mendall's  sky.  It  would  give  them  a 
little  sum  in  bank  in  case  of  trouble.  So,  when  at  last 
Mendall  came  on  rapidly  through  the  grove,  she  met 
him  with  a  smile. 

He  bent  to  kiss  her.  "I'm  later  than  usual,"  he  said 
lightly.  "Mrs.  Bagsby  and  Clare  picked  me  up  on 
Broad  Street,  and  insisted  on  my  going  with  them  to 
the  Country  Club  and  having  tea  with  them.  .  .  . 
How  are  you?  You  look  as  bright  and  as  sweet  as 
these  little  blue  flowers  I  picked  for  you  over  yonder." 
He  unclasped  the  brooch  that  held  her  dress  together 
at  the  throat,  and  closed  it  again  on  the  flowers.  But 
first  he  kissed  the  curve  of  her  breast. 

She  flushed  deeply.  He  had  compelling  ways,  this 
clean-limbed,  gipsy-like  husband  of  hers.  His  lips 
were  as  fresh  and  as  warm  as  an  amorous  boy's. 
Scowling  and  thunderous  he  was,  at  times,  and  when 
he  painted  he  was  unapproachable,  but  there  were  the 
many  interludes  that  were  exquisite. 

"I  have  reason  to  look  bright.  I've  sold  a  painting 
of  yours  to-day,  Carl." 

"You  have !"  he  said  incredulously. 

"Maybe  more  than  one — perhaps  all  of  them,"  she 
returned  archly. 

He  studied  her  face.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he 
asked  gravely.  They  had  come  to  the  porch,  and  he 
sat  downt  drawing  her  down  beside  him.    "You're  not 


54  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

in  fun ;  you're  never  in  fun  when  you  smile  like  that. 
What  do  you  mean  ?" 

She  told  him,  and  in  her  own  fashion,  exaggerating 
a  little  the  impression  his  paintings  had  made  on  Mac- 
Allister.  "He  wants  all  but  a  few  things  that  are  in 
the  studio — all  but  the  Indians,"  she  concluded.  "Do 
you  mind  ?" 

"Mind — no!  .  .  .  But  what  in  the  name  of 
Heaven's  come  over  the  man  ?  Alexander  MacAllister 
buying  paintings !    I  never !" 

"Carl,  do  you  realize  what  it  will  mean?  That  you 
will  really  get  to  Paris  by  and  by !  That  you'll  be  rid 
of  teaching  in  a  year  or  two  I" 

His  flush  deepened.  "Why  talk  of  heaven !  Noth- 
ing's sold  yet,"  he  said  shortly. 

"That's  true,  and  also  there  is  a  string  tied  to  Mr. 
MacAllister's  offer." 

"I  thought  there  was  a  nigger  somewhere  in  the 
wood-pile." 

"But  it  is  not  at  all  an  impossible  condition,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  declared.  "He  has  a  ward,  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
a  relation  of  his,  whom  he  wants  us  to  take  as  a 
boarder.  He  says  she  is  an  orphan.  Her  home  was 
in  Mexico  until  she  was  sent  abroad  to  school,  and 
now  the  war  has  driven  her  over  here.  He  assured 
me  he  will  pay  well  for  her.  He  wants  you  to  give  her 
lessons  in  drawing."  It  was  best  to  make  plain  all  of 
MacAllister's  unpalatable  condition  and  have  done 
with  it. 

"MacAllister  suggest  that  you  take  a  boarder!" 


"SO    BE    IT    THEN"  55 

Mendall  exclaimed  hotly.  "You  shall  do  nothing  of 
the  kind,  Margaret !" 

"It  is  our  one  big  chance,  Carl." 

"I  won't  have  it !  Whatever  other  troubles  you  have 
had,  your  home  has  never  been  invaded,  and  it  shan't 
be  now." 

She  was  the  quieter  because  of  his  vehemence.  "We 
must  do  it,  dear.  I  haven't  said  anything,  but  I  have 
noticed.  You  have  painted  very  little  in  the  last  year. 
Your  enthusiasm  is  going.  You  need  stimulation. 
You  need  other  artists'  work  about  you,  and  above  all 
you  need  to  be  freed  from  teaching.  It  is  ruining  you, 
the  constant  state  of  irritation  in  which  you  are.  You 
ought  to  be  free,  just  to  paint  and  paint.  .  .  .  Still, 
you  need  somebody  to  look  after  you — "  Her  voice 
was  not  altogether  steady  at  the  end. 

Mendall  was  not  conscienceless;  he  had  struggled 
against  the  craving  for  the  untrammeled,  his  distaste 
for  the  domestic,  the  well-ordered,  the  ordained  and 
the  sanctioned.  It  startled  him  to  discover  that  Mar- 
garet had  partially  guessed  his  unrest. 

He  drew  her  close  and  kissed  her  with  more  than  a 
touch  of  passion.  "You  mean  I  need  you,  Margaret, 
and  you  are  right.  .  .  .  How  long  do  you  cal- 
culate you  have  looked  after  me?" 

"We  have  been  married  three  years — almost  four," 
she  said  more  steadily. 

"You  know  you  have  taken  care  of  me  ever  since  I 
was  born.  Who  used  to  come  to  you  with  his  troubles 
when  he  was  twelve,  and  when  he  was  seventeen  who 


56  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

made  wild  love  to  you  while  he  talked  about  his  ever- 
lasting daubs,  and  his  frantic  determination  to  get  to 
Paris  and  study — even  if  he  had  to  cut  school  and 
home  to  do  it?  And  when  he  had  run  for  it  and  was 
starving  in  Paris,  who  was  it  still  wrote  to  you  for 
comfort?  And,  when  in  a  fit  of  desperation  I  went 
to  the  Isthmus  with  the  wild  idea  of  making  money, 
didn't  I,  through  all  the  tropical  steam  of  it,  still  want 
you?  Then  when  I  came  home,  ill,  and  with  empty 
hands,  whose  arms  did  I  want?  .  .  .  I  get  de- 
pressed, of  course,  teaching's  no  great  delight,  and  I 
like  to  look  at  beauty,  and  play  a  little  with  ideas  that 
don't  grow  in  a  middle-west  town,  but  you  stand  first 
always." 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  not  stupid;  his  speech  sounded 
like  an  eager  convincing  of  himself.  But  she  made 
no  comment — except  her  smile.  "I  still  think  it  would 
be  foolish  to  let  such  a  chance  slip  through  our  fingers, 
dear.  Would  it  bother  you  much,  having  a  stranger 
around  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  myself — in  a  day's  time  I'd 
forget  the  girl  existed — except  when  I  taught  her — 
and  then  I'd  hate  her  as  cordially,  and  be  as  polite  to 
her  as  I  am  to  every  pupil  I  possess.  It's  on  you  the 
burden  would  fall.  I  don't  want  you  to  do  it,  Mar- 
garet." 

"Oh,  I  shan't  mind — not  with  such  an  object  in 
view.  I  shall  tell  Mr.  MacAllister  then  that  we  think 
favorably  of  his  offer." 


"SO   BE   IT   THEN"  57 

"But  you  haven't  seen  the  girl ;  you  don't  know  what 
sort  she  is,"  Mendall  objected.     "Is  she  a  Mexican?" 

"No,  I  told  you  she  is  a  relation  of  Mr.  MacAllis- 
ter's.    She  is  partly  Scotch  and  partly  French." 

"That  doesn't  sound  a  stupid  mixture,  though  she 
may  be  a  Hottentot,  for  all  I  care,"  Mendall  said,  with 
a  touch  of  impatience.  "I  don't  want  you  to  be  both- 
ered, that's  all."  He  was  tired  of  the  subject.  The 
discussion  of  ways  and  means  always  irritated  him. 
The  depression  Mrs.  Bagsby's  soft  laughter  had  dis- 
sipated was  upon  him  again. 

"If  she  proves  impossible,  we  are  not  forced  to  keep 
her,"  Mrs.  Mendall  persisted. 

"So  be  it,  then." 


IX 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  PRIMITIVE 

BUT  when  Mrs.  Mendall  had  gone  down  to  the 
living-room,  Mendall  walked  the  studio  irritably. 
He  brought  up  finally  before  Mrs.  Bagsby's  portrait, 
and  looked  at  it.  .  .  .  They  had  been  sailing 
rather  close  to  the  wind.  ...  It  was  his  restless 
dissatisfaction  that  urged  him  into  such  situations. 

It  had  come  upon  him  so  soon  after  marriage,  the 
flatness  that  went  to  bed  and  rose  with  him.  Almost 
from  the  first  day  of  his  marriage  there  had  been  times 
when  he  had  cursed  the  domestic  tranquillity  that  was 
his  wife's  delight.  In  the  last  year  it  had  irked  him 
constantly — like  a  galling  yoke.  And  teaching  made 
his  very  flesh  ache.  There  had  been  no  variety,  no  in- 
spiration, anywhere.  In  pure  desperation,  with  some 
indeterminate  idea  that  he  must  save  his  art  from  de- 
struction, he  had  grasped  at  whatever  stimulation  had 
been  offered  him.  This  woman's  beautiful  profile  had 
set  him  quivering  with  desire  for  brush  and  color. 

Mendall  turned  away  abruptly,  and  came  upon  the 
rich-hued,  tropical  savage  preparing  the  evening  meal 
for  her  man.  .  .  .  The  miasm  of  the  tropics! 
How  his  skin  had  burned,  and  his  teeth  chattered  with 

58 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    PRIMITIVE       59 

fever!  And  yet,  how  the  jungle  life,  its  naked  sav- 
agery, its  brutal  indifference  to  man-made  laws,  the 
freedom  from  all  bonds — how  it  had  fascinated  him! 
And  how  he  had  painted !  ...  He  remembered 
with  a  sudden,  vivid  delight  this  golden-skinned  Indian 
girl  who  had  ruled  over  his  cook-house  and  rolled  his 
tortilla  paste  for  him.  She  had  taken  a  primitive 
enough  view  of  the  domestic  relation. 

"He  hasn't  sense  enough  to  recognize  the  best  thing 
I've  ever  painted,"  he  said  aloud.  "I'm  glad  he  doesn't 
want  it." 

He  continued  to  stare  at  his  handiwork,  a  craving 
for  the  jungle  lifting  in  him.  His  eyes  narrowed  on 
a  recollection:  a  swamp-pool  gloomed  by  crowding 
vegetation,  and  an  escaped  peon  drawn  down  by  the 
treacherous  water  moss.     .     .     . 

When  Mrs.  Mendall  called  him  to  supper,  he  was 
swiftly  stretching  a  canvas;  he  would  be  at  it  with  the 
first  morning  light. 


MARIE  OGILVIE 

MRS.  MENDALL  was  allowed  only  a  day  for 
preparation,  for  MacAllister  wanted  his  ward 
installed  at  once.  As  he  made  no  objection  to  the  price 
Mrs.  Mendall  set  upon  her  husband's  paintings,  and 
offered  more  than  a  generous  monthly  sum  for  his 
ward's  room  and  board,  Mrs.  Mendall  thought  it  best 
to  acquiesce. 

MacAllister  brought  her  shortly  after  dark  the  next 
evening,  coming  this  time  in  his  limousine.  Mrs.  Men- 
dall was  alone,  for  this  was  the  evening  Mendall  gave 
to  the  night  school  in  Laclasse.  She  was  glad,  on  the 
whole,  of  his  absence;  she  had  the  uncomfortable  cer- 
tainty that  he  was  going  to  detest  their  boarder. 

But  though  her  thoughts  were  disquieting,  her  greet- 
ing of  the  odd-looking  girl  MacAllister  brought  in 
with  him  was  all  he  could  desire.  "Marie  Ogilvie?" 
she  said  pleasantly.  "You  have  an  attractive  name.  I 
am  glad  you  are  going  to  stay  with  us.  .  .  .  Will 
you  and  Mr.  MacAllister  come  down  to  the  fire  in  the 
living-room?  It  is  more  cheerful  there.  ...  Or 
Would  you  prefer  to  go  to  your  room  first  ?" 

Marie  Ogilvie's  answer  was  indistinct,  for  on  enter- 
ing she  had  been  seized  by  a  paroxysm  of  coughing.  It 


MARIE   OGILVIE  61 

was  a  chilly  night,  the  air  made  heavy  by  a  drizzly  fog, 
trying  enough  to  a  sensitive  throat.  But  Mrs.  Mendall 
had  noticed  that,  though  strangling,  the  girl's  eyes  had 
taken  note  of  her  surroundings,  and  the  little  reception 
room,  she  knew,  was  not  inviting. 

"Shall  we  go  down,  Marie  ?"  MacAllister  asked.  He 
stood  by,  observant  of  the  meeting. 

With  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips,  she  shook  her 
head. 

"It  better  be  bed,  first  of  all,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Men- 
dall. 

"Lucy  will  take  your  bag,  then,  and  I  will  go  up  with 
you." 

The  mulatto  woman,  who  stood  in  the  background 
with  eyes  fastened  on  the  newcomer,  came  forward, 
and  MacAllister  gave  her  the  valise  he  carried.  He 
put  his  hand  on  his  ward's  shoulder  then.  "Mrs.  Men- 
dall will  make  you  comfortable — we'll  all  be  endeavor- 
ing to  do  that  to  the  best  of  our  ability,"  he  said  reas- 
suringly, "so  just  ye  sleep  in  peace.  Ye've  come  into 
a  haven  at  last." 

She  only  looked  at  him,  a  lifting  and  dropping  of  her 
heavy  lashes,  then  turning  followed  the  mulatto 
woman. 

"Please  go  down  to  the  fire — I  shall  be  back  soon," 
Mrs.  Mendall  said  to  MacAllister. 

She  studied  keenly  the  girl  who  preceded  her.  There 
was  nothing  girlish  about  her.  She  was  as  tall  as  the 
average  woman,  and  extraordinarily  thin  and  sallow. 
She  was  so  thin  that  it  was  difficult  to  tell  just  what 


62  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

the  contour  of  her  face  would  be  if  it  had  the  usual 
fulness  of  youth;  not  a  small- featured  face,  certainly, 
and  with  the  breadth  between  the  eyes  exaggerated. 
Her  eyes  were  noticeable,  light  eyes,  that  because  of 
their  wide,  heavily-fringed  lids,  looked  sleepy.  She 
looked  as  a  yellow-fever  convalescent  might,  Mrs. 
Mendall  thought,  hollow-cheeked,  lips  colorless,  and 
skin  jaundiced. 

Yet  in  spite  of  her  strange  appearance  she  was  im- 
pressive. When  they  came  into  the  bedroom,  she 
walked  directly  to  the  bed  and  began  unfastening  her 
coat.  She  showed  no  interest  in  her  surroundings 
or  in  Mrs.  Mendall.  The  gesture  she  made  to  the 
mulatto  was  regal:  "Here,"  she  said,  indicating  the 
valise  and  pointing  to  her  feet.  Mrs.  Mendall  heard 
her  voice  for  the  first  time ;  it  was  deliberate,  and  en- 
riched with  a  minor  quality,  a  sort  of  thick  resonance. 
She  spoke  with  a  decided  accent. 

The  woman  obeyed  her,  though  she  showed  the 
whites  of  her  eyes  in  a  rolling  glance. 

"I  hope  there  is  everything  here  you  need?"  Mrs. 
Mendall  asked,  making  an  effort  to  be  at  ease. 

"Yes — Madame — I  have  my  bag.  There  is  every- 
thing in  it." 

"You  speak  both  Spanish  and  French,  of  course," 
Mrs.  Mendall  remarked. 

"Oui,  Madame." 

"I  speak  French  very  imperfectly,  and  Spanish  I 
do  not  know  at  all.    Perhaps  you  will  teach  it  to  me." 

"With  pleasure,  Madame.     But  you  will  be  better 


MARIE    OGILVIE  63 

without  my  Spanish — it  is — patois,"  she  returned  com- 
posedly. 

"Mexican  Spanish,  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

She  had  unfastened  her  coat,  but  stood  without  any 
motion  to  remove  it,  her  eyes  fixed  in  a  sort  of  sleepy 
intentness  on  her  questioner.  It  occurred  suddenly  to 
Mrs.  Mendall  that  the  girl  was  waiting  for  her  to  go, 
and  she  turned  at  once. 

"Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you — something  for 
your  cough,  perhaps  ?"  she  asked  from  the  door. 

"No,  Madame — there  is  nothing." 

"If  you  should  need  anything  in  the  night,  my  room 
is  on  the  floor  below.  You  must  not  hesitate  to  call 
me.  And  please  sleep  just  as  late  as  you  like  in  the 
morning." 

"I  shall  remember." 

"Good  night,  then,  and  I  hope  you  will  sleep  well." 

"Thank  you,  Madame." 

Mrs.  Mendall  went  out,  closing  the  door  softly  be- 
hind her,  as  one  will  in  leaving  an  oppressive  presence. 
Her  hand  scarcely  left  the  knob  when  the  key  was 
turned  in  the  lock;  the  girl  must  have  fairly  leapt  to 
the  door  to  have  reached  it  in  tha't  brief  moment,  and 
Mrs.  Mendall  had  the  chill  feeling  that  never  under  any 
circumstances  could  she  come  any  nearer  to  the  girl  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door.  When  MacAllister  had 
first  talked  to  her  of  his  ward,  she  had  felt  that  such 
would  be  the  case. 

The  big  mulatto  woman  who  had  scuttled  out  before 


64  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

her  loomed  now  in  the  doorway  of  her  room.  "Am 
she  goin'  ter  stay  here  long?"  she  asked  in  the  rich 
tones  of  her  people. 

"For  some  little  time,  probably,  Lucy." 
The  woman  retreated  into  her  room.     "She  done 
fin'  her  place,  then,  maybe,"  Mrs.  Mendall  heard  her 
mutter. 

Mrs.  Mendall  sighed  as  she  went  down-stairs.  Time 
would  show  whether  she  had  undertaken  an  impossi- 
bility. 


XI 


WHATEVER  MacAllister  may  have  inferred 
from  Mrs.  Mendall's  expression  when  she  re- 
turned, he  received  her  easily  enough. 

There  were  times  when  he  thought  it  best  to  be 
direct.  "Weel,  what  do  ye  think  of  my  ward?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  truthfully.  "She  ap- 
pears older  than  eighteen — more  like  an  experienced 
woman." 

"She  is  eighteen  in  June,"  MacAllister  said,  in  the 
same  positive  way  in  which  he  had  vouched  for  his 
ward's  parentage. 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  silent. 

He  studied  her  face  a  moment,  his  look  growing  de- 
termined. "I  didn't  intend  to  tell  ye,"  he  said;  "I'm 
not  given  to  working  on  people's  sympathies;  ordi- 
narily I'm  a  man  of  dollars  and  cents,  and  ours  is  a 
business  arrangement — but  it's  a  refugee  ye've  taken 
in,  Mrs.  Mendall.  That  child  was  in  Belgium,  in  a  con- 
vent, when  the  war  broke.  She's  lived  for  the  better 
part  of  a  year  among  destitute  women  and  children, 
and  wounded  men.  She's  faced  death.  And  when  at 
last  she  got  help  and  was  sent  to  Mexico,  it  was  only  to 

65 


66  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

find  that  the  turmoil  there  had  deprived  her  of  shelter. 
.  .  .  It's  an  experience  that  would  take  the  youth 
out  of  a  girl's  face." 

Mrs.  Mendall  looked  distressed.  "How  dreadful! 
I  don't  wonder  she  looks  haggard  and  aged."  She 
stammered  a  little  over  her  explanation :  "I  am  afraid 
you  have  misunderstood  me.  It's  not  that  I  did  not 
feel  sorry  for — for  your  ward — from  the  very  begin- 
ning. .  .  .  It's  just  that  I  was — taken  aback  by 
her  manner.  When  I  came  in  I  was  puzzling  just  how 
it  was  best  to  treat  her." 

"Treat  her  like  the  very  young  girl  she  is.  Be  kind 
to  her.  She'll  soon  discover  that  she's  among  friends. 
.  .  .  There's  a  deal  more  I  could  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Mendall,  but  it's  unnecessary.  Marie  was  neglected 
for  years  by  her  father.  She's  never  had  a  home.  Ye 
can  see  for  yerself  she's  got  the  air  of  one  who  doesn't 
expect  kindness  from  any  one — like  a  homeless  cat. 
And,  now,  everything's  strange  to  her — people,  coun- 
try, climate,  everything.  .  .  .  It's  just  pitiful!" 
He  spoke  with  more  feeling  than  Mrs.  Mendall 
thought  was  possible  to  him. 

"I  shall  do  my  best  to  make  her  happy,"  she  prom- 
ised. 

"Don't  ask  her  any  questions,  then,"  he  warned. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why,  questions  about  the  past.  I  want  her  to  for- 
get it  all." 

"I  certainly  shall  not  do  that." 

"There's  one  thing  must  be  attended  to,"  MacAl- 


"A    KINSWOMAN    OF    MINE"  67 

lister  continued,  with  a  return  to  his  usual  manner. 
"She  needs  clothing.  She  came  to  me  with  a  few 
things  tied  up  in  a  bundle.  I  had  some  clothes  sent  out 
to  her  this  morning;" — he  grimaced  with  a  touch  of 
his  usual  sardonic  humor — "I  went  shopping  like  any 
year-old  husband,  and  made  a  sad  mess  of  it.  She's 
evidently  been  used  to  pretty  things — I  want  ye  to  take 
her  and  fit  her  out.  Let  her  get  whatever  she  wants, 
and  turn  the  bills  over  to  me.  Your  good  taste  ought 
to  help  her,"  and  he  cast  an  appreciative  glance  upon 
Mrs.  Mendall's  curves ;  she  was  gowned  in  white,  her 
dimpled  shoulders  showing  through  the  lace  that  mod- 
estly saved  the  gown  from  being  low-necked. 

"Certainly  I  will.  And  that  ought  to  cheer  her, 
too — women  love  pretty  things." 

"Ye  do,  I  suppose?"  he  asked,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

"Why,  of  course." 

"Ye're  thoroughly  feminine,  Mrs.  Mendall,  and  I 
like  ye  for  it.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  ye  something:  men 
like  to  see  women  wear  pretty  things  twice  as  well  as 
women  like  to  wear  them." 

Mrs.  Mendall  laughed.  She  was  relieved  that  he 
had  rid  himself  of  his  grim  manner.  He  looked  a 
pugnacious  animal  when  he  brought  his  brows  down 
over  his  eyes  and  spoke  through  tight  lips. 

"And,  now,"  he  said,  "there's  something  more,  be- 
fore I  go:  yer  having  my  ward  here  is  no  secret;  if 
any  one  pesters  ye,  ye  can  tell  them  exactly  how  it  came 
about,  and  that  Marie's  a  kinswoman  of  mine.  And 
mind  ye,  tell  them  she's  no  dependent  on  me.     .     .     . 


68  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

All  the  same,  I'd  take  it  kindly  if  ye'd  not  advertise 
the  fact  that  I  have  a  ward,  and  that  she's  with  you. 
When  I'm  ready,  I'll  tell  Laclasse  all  that,  and  more. 
.  .  .  It's  simply  that  Laclasse  takes  a  deal  of  inter- 
est in  my  affairs.  I  know  that  women  chatter,  but  in 
my  experience  the  biggest  gossip  factory  in  existence 
is  a  man's  club.  When  the  average  man  has  finished 
talking  business,  his  active  brain  has  to  turn  to  some- 
thing else,  and  as  it's  not  overly  stocked  with  subjects 
of  interest,  he's  apt  to  gossip.  And  the  most  deadly 
gossip  is  that  a  man  carries  to  a  woman.  She's  got 
no  great  faith  in  the  whisperings  of  her  own  sex,  but 
what  a  man  drops  in  her  ear  is  gospel." 

Mrs.  Mendall  knew  that  the  warning  was  meant  for 
her  husband.  MacAllister  was  thinking  of  Mrs. 
Bagsby.  "We  see  very  little  of  people,  as  you  know," 
she  said  quietly,  "and  neither  Mr.  Mendall  nor  I  are 
talkers.  Still,  I  shall  remember  your  wishes  and  shall 
mention  them  to  Carl." 

"I'll  be  going,  then,  with  my  mind  at  ease.  Ye  have 
my  gratitude,  Mrs.  Mendall,  and  if  there's  ever  any 
matter  in  which  you'd  wish  me  to  stand  yer  friend, 
I  hope  ye'll  come  to  me.    Ye'll  be  welcome." 


XII 


A  MEDIEVAL  MYSTERY 


WHEN  MacAllister  had  gone,  Mrs.  Mendall  sat 
down  to  think.  His  last  warning  had  made 
her  writhe :  he  knew,  then,  that  Mrs.  Bagsby  had  an- 
nexed her  husband;  probably  it  was  town  knowledge. 
Mrs.  Mendall's  hands  clenched :  the  cool  effrontery  of 
the  woman,  to  come  into  her  house  and  pose  for  her 
husband  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  taking  pos- 
session of  him !  But  she  might  get  her  due.  Thanks 
to  MacAllister — and  that  queer  girl  up-stairs — she  did 
not  feel  quite  so  helpless  as  she  had  felt. 

Mrs.  Mendall  drew  a  quick  breath,  then  turned  to 
her  more  immediate  concern:' how  much  of  her  sus- 
picions regarding  MacAllister  and  his  ward  would  it 
be  best  to  tell  her  husband  ? 

When  Mendall  came  in  an  hour  later,  he  found  her 
still  sitting  before  the  fire.  "You  waited  up  for  me, 
Margaret — that  was  good  of  you,"  he  said,  kissing  her. 

He  looked  tired.  This  night  class  of  his  was  one  of 
his  greatest  crosses,  a  thing  to  which  Mrs.  Mendall 
had  persuaded  him  with  difficulty.  She  had  known  it 
would  be  popular,  and  that  it  would  please  the  school 
authorities. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  our  guest." 
69 


70  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

He  sat  down  and  stretched  his  feet  to  the  fire.  "I'd 
forgotten  she  was  coming  to-night;  what's  she  like?" 

"Queer  and  ill-looking,  Carl,  and  old  for  her  age. 
Mr.  MacAllister  told  me  to-night  that  she  had  been  in 
Belgium  through  all  this  trouble.  She  seems  to  have 
had  some  terrible  experiences." 

Mendall's  brows  lifted.  "Actually  a  refugee,  then! 
But  it's  odd,  if  she  is  his  ward,  he  didn't  know  of  her 
plight,"  he  said,  with  a  man's  quick  suspicion.  "Did 
his  story  hang  together,  Margaret?  Tell  me  what  he 
told  you?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  gave  him  MacAllister's  story,  and  she 
also  repeated  MacAllister's  warnings. 

"His  tale  will  pass,"  was  Mendall's  comment  when 
she  had  finished.  "It's  evident  he  doesn't  want  gos- 
sip." 

Mrs.  Mendall  wished  that  her  husband  showed  the 
same  caution :  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  the 
world  looks  on.  "I  think  Mr.  MacAllister  knows  what 
to  tell,  and  what  to  keep  to  himself :  he  has  certainly 
never  told  Laclasse  that  he  was  married." 

Mendall  stared  at  his  wife.  "He's  not  married, 
Margaret — he's  never  been  married !" 

"Laclasse  thinks  he  has  not;  but  I  know  he  has. 
.  .  .  He  married  a  girl  who  went  to  the  same 
boarding-school  at  which  I  was  in  New  York — the 
Garden  School,  on  Fifth  Avenue.  I  was  only  fourteen 
then,  you  wouldn't  remember  about  it.  There  were  a 
number  of  southern  girls  in  the  school;  the  girl  he 
married  was  in  the  senior  class.     She  was  lovely  to 


A    MEDIEVAL    MYSTERY  71 

me,  in  spite  of  her  being  older,  and  we  were  great 
friends,  so  it  made  a  deep  impression  on  me — her  hav- 
ing a  lover  and  marrying.  I  remember  his  face  per- 
fectly. He  was  wildly  in  love  with  her.  She  was 
French ;  he  met  her  in  New  Orleans,  she  told  me.  They 
were  married,  and  he  took  her  to  Mexico.  He  was 
only  about  twenty- four,  but  he  had  a  position  in  some 
mine.  Things  didn't  go  well  with  them,  though,  for 
they  separated  in  about  a  year.  She  wrote  me  all  about 
it.,, 

"If  you  knew  all  this  history  of  Alexander  MacAl- 
lister s,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  of  it  before?"  Mendall 
asked,  with  a  touch  of  sharpness.  More  than  once  be- 
fore he  had  had  examples  of  her  secretiveness ;  she 
worked  quietly  but  surely,  this  little  wife  of  his. 

"I  had  no  idea  until  he  came  here  the  other  day  that 
this  man  was  the  boy  who  married  Eugenie.  I  had 
never  seen  Alexander  MacAllister  of  Laclasse  until 
the  other  day." 

"And  why  didn't  you  tell  me  then  ?" 

"Because  I  wanted  to  see  this  girl  first,  and  make 
sure  my  suspicions  were  correct." 

"But  he  wouldn't  bring  a  loose  girl  to  us,  Margaret ! 
He'd  house  her  somewhere  else." 

"I  don't  mean  that,  Carl!  She  is  his  daughter. 
.  .  .  There  was  a  baby  came  just  before  Eugenie 
left  MacAllister.  She  wrote  me  about  it.  It  was 
born  eighteen  years  ago  in  June.  She  took  her  baby 
and  went  to  France ;  her  father's  relatives  were  there. 
When  she  died  she  left  her  little  girl  to  them.    I  think 


72  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

now  the  war  has  brought  MacAllister's  daughter  back 
to  him." 

"But  why  doesn't  he  acknowledge  his  daughter?" 

"He  probably  has  his  reasons.  At  any  rate  he  does 
not  acknowledge  her,  though  evidently  he  means  to 
provide  for  her." 

"Aren't  you  going  a  good  deal  on  guesswork,  Mar- 
garet?" 

"No!  Now  I  have  seen  her,  I  am  absolutely  cer- 
tain." 

"So  we  are  harboring  a  medieval  mystery,  are  we !" 
Mendall  exclaimed,  with  a  flash  of  his  usual  irrespon- 
sible humor.    "Well,  I  never !" 


xirr 


CROSSED  SWORDS 


MRS.  MENDALL  awaited  with  interest  and  some 
trepidation  Marie  Ogilvie's  first  appearance  at 
the  breakfast  table.  The  girl  was  evidently  going  to 
appear,  for  she  had  heard  her  moving  about  her  room. 

But  when  finally  she  came  in,  Mrs.  Mendall  received 
her  placidly.  "You  are  an  early  riser,"  she  said,  smil- 
ingly offering  her  hand.    "I  hope  you  slept  well  ?" 

Marie  gave  her  hand  deliberately — a  slim  long-fin- 
gered hand,  Mrs.  Mendall  noticed.  "I  usually  wake 
early,  Madame/' 

Apparently  she  was  quite  at  ease.  She  had  not 
changed  overnight.  She  had  the  same  distant,  low- 
spoken  manner,  though  in  the  sunny  morning  light  she 
looked  more  attractive,  for  her  head  was  bared,  show- 
ing an  almost  incredible  thickness  and  length  of  hair, 
which  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway  had  looked  black, 
but  the  instant  the  light  played  on  it  rippled  with  yel- 
low, the  tawny  hue  that  in  her  eyes  was  permanent. 
Mrs.  Mendall  had  never  seen  anything  quite  so  aston- 
ishing as  her  hair — it  was  so  full  of  lights  and  shad- 
ows. 

And  her  attire  was  almost  as  remarkable.  She  was 
73 


74  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

clad  in  a  red  silk  kimono  such  as  any  department  store 
can  furnish,  but  her  waist  and  hips  were  several  times 
wound  by  a  wide,  exquisitely  gold  embroidered  and 
deeply  fringed  sash  of  which  any  stage  beauty  might 
be  proud,  and  across  her  shoulders  was  a  beautiful 
black  lace  mantilla.  The  ends  of  the  sash  hung  to  her 
ankles,  a  little  lower  only  than  her  two  thick  braids 
of  hair.  Mrs.  Mendall's  downward  glance  showed 
her  that  Marie's  stockings  were  red  silk,  and  her  satin 
slippers,  encasing  small  slim  feet,  also  were  red.  Mac- 
Allister  had  evidently  gone  shopping  to  some  purpose. 
But  the  gaiety  of  her  attire  gave  no  brightness  to  her 
face.  An  extraordinary  sight  she  was,  as  bright- 
plumaged  and  as  sad- faced  as  an  aged  macaw. 

"And  you  found  your  room  comfortable?"  Mrs. 
Mendall  inquired,  while  she  made  her  observations. 

"Quite  so,  Madame." 

She  studied  Mrs.  Mendall  with  the  sleepy  intentness 
of  a  somnolent  tiger,  and  then  bestowed  the  same  de- 
liberate attention  on  the  room.  Mrs.  Mendall  had  the 
feeling  of  helplessness  that  had  oppressed  her  the  night 
before.  Just  how  was  she  to  treat  such  a  strange  in- 
congruous creature?  She  had  such  a  vast  calm  about 
her;  as  if  from  her  cradle  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
deference.  MacAllister's  advice  seemed  hardly  ap- 
plicable.   Still,  she  had  no  better  to  follow. 

"Breakfast  is  not  quite  ready,  Marie,"  she  said,  in- 
fusing into  her  manner  all  the  elderly  she  could.  "Un- 
til it  is,  suppose  you  go  out  on  the  terrace  and  look 
about  you.    It's  a  wonderful  morning,  warm  as  June. 


CROSSED    SWORDS  75 

Put  the  scarf  over  your  head  so  you  won't  add  to  your 
cold." 

She  was  so  instantly  obeyed  that  she  decided  Mac- 
Allister  was  right :  the  girl's  composure  was  not  hau- 
teur ;  she  was  simply  very  shy. 

Marie  went  out  to  the  very  verge  of  the  terrace;  but 
there  she  stood  planted;  she  showed  none  of  a  young 
girl's  curiosity,  or  desire  for  movement.  She  glanced 
swiftly  backward  and  upward  at  the  house,  then  gazed 
steadily  down  into  the  ravine.  There  was  a  tangle  of 
undergrowth  there,  and  big  cottonwoods.  Everything 
wore  its  dainty  overslip  of  pale  green,  sly  disclaimer 
of  the  nakedness  of  winter. 

As  Mrs.  Mendall  watched  her,  she  thought  of  what 
MacAllister  had  said;  this  prairie  country  with  its 
wide  reaches  must  seem  strange  to  the  girl.  She  said 
so  when  she  called  her  in.  "Your  journey  must  have 
seemed  endlessly  long  to  you,  Marie." 

"Yes,  Madame." 

Did  the  girl  have  nothing  but  monosyllables  at  her 
command,  Mrs.  Mendall  wondered.  Her  manner  cer- 
tainly did  not  invite  a  continuation  of  the  subject. 
She  sat  with  eyes  on  her  plate.  Probably  her  journey 
had  also  been  a  painful  experience. 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  casting  about  in  her  mind  for  a 
safe  topic  when  Mendall  appeared.  Clothed  in  a  blue 
bathrobe,  he  hurried  into  the  room  and  took  his  place 
at  the  head  of  the  table  and,  without  so  much  as  a 
glance  at  Marie,  applied  himself  to  the  poached  egg 
the  mulatto  woman  placed  before  him.     It  was  his 


76  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

habit  on  warm  mornings  to  paint  dressed  only  in  his 
pajamas  and  sandals,  and  to  breakfast  in  that  attire. 
Mrs.  Mendall  guessed  that  this  morning  a  recollection, 
grown  hazy  because  of  absorption,  had  probably  ob- 
truded itself,  and  the  bathrobe  was  a  vague  tribute  to 
convention. 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  shocked.  She  had  forgotten  to 
warn  him.  Her  well-ordered  mind  had  never  been 
able  to  adjust  itself  to  the  unconventionalities  that 
were  an  inseparable  part  of  him.  She  knew  instantly 
that  he  must  be  wrapped  in  a  new  creation.  But  to  ap- 
pear before  their  boarder  in  this  fashion,  and  with  the 
added  insult  of  not  even  sensing  her  presence! 

She  looked  at  Marie  in  confusion,  and  found  her 
studying  the  new  arrival  in  her  sleepy  yet  intent  way. 
She  saw  at  once  that  she  was  not  in  the  least  embar- 
rassed by  Mendall's  attire ;  it  was  his  face  she  was  con- 
sidering. His  hair  was  tousled  like  a  boy's.  His 
cheeks  were  thin;  he  had  the  good  height  and  well- 
carried  head,  the  clean  firm  leanness  of  an  athlete — 
a  black-browed,  olive-skinned,  vivid-eyed  youth.  His 
forebears  had  been  seamen ;  men  who  owned  ships  and 
sailed  around  the  world  in  them.  Mrs.  Mendall  often 
thought  some  ancestor  of  his  must  have  captured  and 
married  a  Spanish  girl,  giving  to  the  Mendalls  their 
gipsy  coloring,  and  that  Carl  had  caught  from  the 
ocean  the  color  of  his  eyes,  its  gray  as  well  as  its  green. 
It  was  Mendall's  mouth  that  showed  maturity ;  it  was 
already  lined,  and  expressive  of  full  twenty-nine  years 
lived  much  of  the  time  in  dissatisfaction,  a  modicum 


CROSSED    SWORDS  77 

in  self-indulgence,  and  a  large  half  in  intense  striving. 
It  was  the  arrogant  upper  lip  that  spoiled  the  almost 
perfect  molding  of  mouth  and  chin.  Just  now  he  wore 
his  withdrawn  look  of  striving. 

But  an  introduction  was  necessary.  Mrs.  Mendall 
broke  in  on  his  absorption.  "Carl,  this  is  Marie  Ogil- 
vie.  .  .  .  Are  you  so  deep  in  your  painting  this 
morning  that  you  can't  speak  to  either  of  us?  You 
are  really  dreadful !"  Yet  under  the  reproach  there 
was  a  heart  full  of  love.  Marie  glanced  from  one  to 
the  other,  a  mere  lifting  and  lowering  of  her  heavy 
eyelids. 

Mendall  started.  "Eh?"  he  said,  looking  up.  Then 
he  sat  bolt  upright,  for  his  eyes  had  leapt  from  his  wife 
to  Marie.    They  swept  her,  then  focused  intently. 

"God!"  he  said  softly;  and  as  he  stared,  and  in  a 
lower  tone:  "Of  all  the  wonders!"  The  quiet  energy 
of  the  expression  was  tremendous;  Carl  Mendall  was 
wide  awake  now. 

Marie  shrank  visibly,  but  Mrs.  Mendall  thought  she 
guessed  his  meaning.  "Carl!  Will  you  ever  behave 
like  other  people!"  she  exclaimed,  half  laughing,  half 
angry.  "He  is  admiring  your  hair,  Marie — any  artist 
would." 

Marie's  only  answer  was  the  flush  that  turned  her 
dusky. 

Mendall  somersaulted  back  to  his  usual  manner. 
"So,  Sefiorita,  I  am  to  teach  you  to  use  a  pencil  ?"  He 
had  a  quick  smile — as  frank  as  a  boy's ;  yet,  even  while 
smiling,  he  continued  to  study  her  intently,  from  her 


78  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

hair  to  her  thin  shoulders,  and  back  again  for  a  ques- 
tioning of  her  eyes. 

Her  color  ebbed,  and  her  eyes  narrowed  as  she  met 
his  look;  then  she  drew  the  curtain  of  her  lashes.  "My 
guardian  says  so,  Sefior." 

"And  he  is  a  man  to  be  obeyed.  .  .  .  Senorita, 
have  you  had  yellow  fever?" 

Her  denial  was  steadily  given.    "No,  Seiior." 

Mendall  bent  to  her,  vividly  reminiscent,  speaking 
rapidly  in  Spanish.  "But  you  are  from  the  Tehuante- 
pec  National  ?  You  know  it,  surely — its  steaming  heat, 
its  fevers  and  its  seven  plagues  of  Egypt !  It  is  fit  only 
for  reptiles,  that  country  of  slaves !  .  .  .  And  yet 
it  has  fascination.    I  dreamed  of  it  all  night !" 

She  looked  at  him  with  dilated  eyes  as  he  talked,  as 
if  for  the  moment  hypnotized.  Then  she  stiffened, 
slowly;  her  thin  shoulders  lifted,  her  lip  curled  in 
savage  disdain,  high  enough  to  show  her  teeth,  even, 
white  and  sharp.  Her  eyelids  had  drooped  until  her 
eyes  were  a  mere  yellow  gleam  in  a  dusky  setting. 
"Sefior,  you  are  blessed  with  imagination,"  she  said,  in 
her  huskily  accented  English.  "I  know  nothing  of  the 
Isthmus;  of  its  fevers,  its  slaves,  or  its  reptiles.  It  is 
possible  to  contract  fever  in  almost  any  part  of  the 
world." 

It  was  the  longest  speech  she  had  made  since  enter- 
ing the  house,  slowly  delivered,  but  with  an  air  of  vivid 
intelligence.  Mrs.  Mendall  had  begun  to  wonder  if  it 
was  stupidity  that  made  her  so  monosyllabic. 

Mendall  shook  his  shoulders  as  if  to  throw  off  an 


CROSSED    SWORDS  79 

obsession.  "Pardon  me,  Seiiorita,"  he  said,  smilingly 
incredulous.  "I  was  thinking  of  the  jungle,  and  looked 
up  to  see  you,  and  for  some  reason  you  fitted  in  with 
my  visions." 

Marie  did  not  appear  to  hear  him.  Her  speech  made, 
she  had  become  again  silent  and  immobile.  Mrs.  Men- 
dall  was  distressed.  Whatever  it  was  Mendall  had 
said  in  Spanish,  it  had  evidently  savagely  angered  the 
girl.  The  two  were  antagonistic — as  she  had  feared 
they  would  be.    It  was  going  to  make  things  difficult. 

She  motioned  to  Mendall  to  be  silent. 

He  shrugged,  then  asked  in  a  different  tone :  "When 
do  you  want  to  begin  your  drawing  lessons,  Senorita?" 

She  answered  without  lifting  her  eyes.  "Whenever 
my  guardian  wishes." 

"This  morning?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Mendall  interposed.  "Carl,  I  think  the  lessons 
should  wait  until  Marie  is  more  rested.  I  am  sure  Mr. 
MacAllister  would  advise  it." 

"What  does  Miss  Marie  herself  say  about  it?"  he  re- 
turned. 

Possibly  he  wanted  her  to  look  up,  but  she  did  not ; 
the  lowering  of  her  wide  eyelids  seemed  to  be  her 
guard  from  encroachment.  "My  guardian  will  come 
in  a  few  days — I  shall  wait  till  then." 

"Yes,  that  is  best,"  Mrs.  Mendall  said,  anxious  to 
smooth  over  the  incident.  "You  will  be  feeling  better 
then."  She  was  thoroughly  annoyed  with  her  husband 
for  persisting  in  teasing  the  girl.  He  had  taken  a  dis- 
like to  her  and  chose  to  be  aggravating. 


80  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

Marie  remained  silent,  and  Mrs.  Mendall  was  re- 
lieved that  her  husband  said  no  more,  though  he  looked 
at  Marie  frequently  and  intently.  The  striving  look 
which  Mrs.  Mendall  called  his  "painting  look"  had 
come  back  to  him. 

When  he  rose  and  hurried  out,  Mrs.  Mendall  began 
to  excuse  him.  "You  must  not  mind  Mr.  Mendall's 
odd  ways,  Marie.  When  he  is  painting  he  is  not  ac- 
countable. He  is  full  of  queer  fancies.  Often  he 
is  so  absent-minded  that  he  forgets  to  see  you,  and 
when  suddenly  recalled,  stares  you  out  of  countenance. 
You  will  understand  when  you  know  him  better." 

Marie  surprised  her.  "I  am  quite  used  to  artists, 
Madame.    They  do  not  disturb  me  in  the  least." 

"I  suppose  in  Europe — "  Mrs.  Mendall  stopped  ab- 
ruptly on  the  question. 

Marie  passed  over  it  and  asked  a  question  of  her 
own.    "Did  Mr.  Mendall  go  to  Mexico  to  paint?" 

"No,  he  was  on  a  sugar  plantation.  From  what  he 
has  told  me,  it  must  have  been  a  dreadful  experience — 
yellow  fever  and  starving  beaten  people.  The  Indians 
of  the  Isthmus  appear  to  be  little  else  than  slaves — 
poor  wretches !  And  the  crawling  things !"  She  shiv- 
ered. "Fancy  having  scorpions  drop  on  your  breakfast 
table!" 

Marie  asked  one  more  question :  "Does  Mr.  Mendall 
paint  portraits  ?" 

"Sometimes.  He  likes  best  to  paint  the  nude.  One 
great  difficulty  here  is  the  lack  of  models.  There  is 
no  opportunity  at  all  here  for  a  man  with  his  talent." 


CROSSED    SWORDS  81 

Marie  said  no  more.  She  subsided  into  silence  as 
suddenly  as  she  had  awakened.  She  had  finished  her 
breakfast  and  sat  evidently  waiting  for  orders. 

Mrs.  Mendall  suggested  that  they  go  out  on  the  ter- 
race. "There  can  be  nothing  better  for  you  than  to 
be  in  the  open  air,"  she  advised.  "You  must  feel  free 
to  go  about  just  as  you  like.  The  whole  house  is  open 
to  you — except  the  studio.  Out  here  you  can  walk  in 
any  direction,  only  I  should  not  go  far;  there  are  so 
many  trees  about  the  house  that  it  is  easily  lost  sight 
of." 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  not  without  a  sense  of  humor. 
She  was  thinking  that  should  Marie  in  her  brilliant  at- 
tire suddenly  appear  before  a  gipsy  caravan  she  would 
certainly  be  annexed.  She  had  also  a  somewhat  grimly 
amused  realization  of  the  sensation  Marie  would  create 
should  she  cross  the  road  before  Mrs.  Bagsby's  auto- 
mobile— a  wildcat  with  yellow  gaze  for  the  domesti- 
cated panther  seated  in  cushioned  ease !  Mrs.  Mendall 
had  not  the  same  feeling  of  helplessness  she  had  had 
the  night  before,  but  she  did  not  feel  in  the  least  drawn 
to  MacAllister's  daughter.  The  girl  had  looked  like 
a  savage  when  she  had  bared  her  teeth.  She  was  very 
certain  that  few  people  would  like  Marie. 

Marie  received  her  instructions  obediently.  They 
parted  finally,  and  she  stood  still  until  Mrs.  Mendall 
disappeared  in  the  house.  Then  she  whirled  about, 
turning  her  suddenly  convulsed  face  to  the  open,  and 
plunged  down  the  slope  into  the  ravine. 


XIV 

GETTING  AWAY  FROM   BOREDOM 

IT  WAS  noon  before  Mrs.  Mendall  missed  Marie. 
Earlier  in  the  morning  Mendall  had  opened  his 
studio  door  to  tell  her  that  he  wanted  no  lunch,  that  he 
was  painting,  that  he  must  not  be  disturbed.  It  was  his 
usual  procedure  when  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  have 
a  day  to  give  to  his  painting;  she  thought  nothing  of 
that. 

But  Marie's  absence  worried  her.  The  girl's  lunch 
cooled  on  the  table ;  she  was  not  in  her  room ;  she  was 
not  in  the  grove.  Mrs.  Mendall  searched  for  her,  at 
first  anxiously,  then  in  real  alarm. 

She  was  forced  finally  to  go  to  her  husband.  "I 
have  been  all  through  the  grove,  and  down  to  the 
creek,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "What  can  have  become 
of  her,  Carl?  I  am  dreadfully  worried.  Could  she  have 
walked  too  far  and  been  taken  ill  ?" 

"The  creek's  not  deep  enough  for  her  to  drown  in," 
Mendall  returned  absently,  and  went  on  with  his  work, 
a  big  canvas  upon  which  was  rapidly  coming  into  being 
the  giant  vegetation  of  the  jungle,  crowding  in  upon  an 
oozing  mat  of  vivid  water-moss. 

"Of  course  it  isn't !  What  an  idea !"  Mrs.  Mendall 
exclaimed,  horrified. 

82 


GETTING   AWAY    FROM    BOREDOM    83 

"She'll  drown — by  degrees — in  this  thing  I'm  do- 
ing." 

In  her  fright  Mrs.  Mendall  took  her  husband's  arm 
and  shook  him.  "Carl!  Wake  up!  You  must  come 
and  help  me !  I  am  sure  she  has  simply  gone  out  of 
sight  of  the  house  and  lost  her  way.  I  warned  her  not 
to  do  it." 

"Oh,  damn!"  Mendall  said,  throwing  down  his 
brush.    "Now  the  rest  of  the  day's  done  for!" 

Then  at  sight  of  his  wife's  pained  and  frightened 
face,  he  lifted  her  up  and  kissed  her.  "I  wasn't  swear- 
ing at  you,  Margaret;  the  Lord  forbid!  If  I  was  curs- 
ing any  one  it  was  that  girl.  There's  trouble  for  some- 
body written  all  over  her.  She's  safe  enough;  I'll 
find  her." 

Mrs.  Mendall  went  through  the  grove  and  looked 
down  the  hillside  to  the  car  line,  while  Mendall  went 
down  the  stream  in  the  ravine.  He  crossed  it,  and 
climbed  the  slope  for  a  short  distance,  until  he  came  to 
the  edge  of  the  meadow. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  the  open  he  saw  the  huddled 
heap  of  red.  He  guessed  at  once  then  how  it  was,  so 
walked  lightly  until  he  stood  over  her.  She  lay  in 
the  cup  made  by  two  big  roots  of  a  gigantic  cotton- 
wood,  close  to  its  trunk,  curled  up  like  a  tawny  kitten 
asleep  in  the  sun.  Her  hair  was  loosened,  and  was 
spread  over  her,  the  sun  making  a  golden  mesh  of  it, 
a  network  of  gold  threads  over  the  crude  red  of  her 
dress.  Its  warmth  had  long  since  dried  her  lashes,  and 
was  painting  her  lips  red,  even  setting  a  fleck  of  color 


84  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

in  her  cheeks.  Pillowed  on  her  arm,  her  face  looked 
fuller,  younger,  hinting  of  luxuriance.  She  had  the 
promise,  certainly,  of  tropical  beauty;  the  gold  in  her 
hair  was  like  the  yellow  streak  in  a  tiger's  coat. 

Mendall  stood  for  some  time  looking  down  on  her. 
It  was  plain  she  was  wrapped  in  the  sleep  of  exhaustion 
that  had  come  after  long  weeping;  the  stain  of  tears 
was  still  on  her  cheeks.  She  had  probably  lain  awake 
the  night  through,  perhaps  for  many  nights,  the  same 
watchful  unrest  an  animal  shows  when  it  first  loses  the 
sight  and  smell  of  its  accustomed  surroundings. 

Mendall  bent  close  to  her.  Her  sleep  was  almost 
as  breathless  as  a  faint.  He  knelt  beside  her  then,  and 
for  some  time  longer  studied  her,  the  texture  of  her 
skin,  the  slim  hand  with  its  almond-shaped  nails,  the 
sharp  upthrust  of  her  thin  shoulder,  the  hollow  be- 
tween the  lift  of  ribs  and  her  well-defined  hip,  and  the 
long  clean  line  of  leg  which  from  the  knee  down  was 
exposed — except  for  the  sheer  iridescence  of  silk  stock- 
ing. Either  the  breeze  or  some  movement  in  sleep 
had  caught  aside  the  light  kimono. 

Her  foot  had  shed  its  slipper,  and  Mendall  looked 
at  it;  it  was  so  perfectly  arched,  so  beautiful  in  line 
and  in  the  formation  of  the  toes.  Their  nails  showed 
glossy  through  the  thin  covering  of  silk.  No  wonder 
such  a  foot  disdained  a  slipper!  It  was  a  thing  that 
should  go  uncovered.  ...  A  shiver  passed  over 
him ;  what  an  anatomy  to  paint ! 

Mendall's  common  sense,  of  which  he  did  possess  a 
modicum,  had  at  once  suggested  that  even  the  dry  bit 


GETTING   AWAY   FROM   BOREDOM    85 

of  earth  she  had  selected  was  no  bed  for  a  fever  con- 
valescent, but,  as  always,  the  artist  in  him  had  de- 
manded its  satisfaction  first.  And  now,  after  he  had 
gazed  his  fill,  he  was  seized  by  one  of  the  freakish  im- 
pulses to  which  he  was  subject:  could  he  carry  her 
without  waking  her?  It  was  worth  trying.  She  was 
skin  and  bone,  so  she  would  be  no  great  burden.  And 
if  she  waked,  it  would  simply  mean  an  explanation; 
that  would  be  entertaining. 

He  bent  and  cautiously  slipped  his  hands  under  her, 
turning  her  against  his  breast,  lifting  her  gradually, 
and  then,  with  infinite  care,  raising  himself  until  he 
stood  upright,  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  When  he 
began  to  walk,  her  head  slipped  and  rested  against  his 
chin.  Looking  down  he  saw  her  face  foreshortened, 
the  line  of  brows,  the  lashes  on  her  cheeks,  and  her 
slightly  parted  lips.  He  looked  at  her  frequently;  at 
any  moment  her  lashes  might  lift.  It  was  a  bit  like 
playing  a  game,  his  skill  matched  against  chance. 

Then,  as  he  went  on,  he  began  to  feel  an  added  en- 
joyment in  what  he  was  doing.  She  was  not  so  light 
as  he  had  thought,  but  his  strength  rose  to  the  demand 
with  a  curiously  pleasurable  effort.  Her  body  was 
warm  against  him,  and  an  increasing  weight,  and  yet 
her  thinness  gave  her  an  odd  unsubstantiality,  as  if 
she  might  escape  from  his  hold.  He  did  not  have  the 
feeling  of  possession.  The  immediately  emotional  in 
him  was  roused.  He  began  to  have  the  familiar  feel- 
ing of  walking  on  air,  and  that  the  thick  pounding  of 
his  heart  had  no  connection  with  the  steepness  of  the 


86  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

climb.  He  came  straight  on  up  the  terrace,  tingling  to 
his  finger-tips,  quite  unconcerned  that  his  wife  had 
rounded  the  house  and  was  staring  at  him. 

She  hurried  up,  choked  with  fright. 

He  looked  at  her  through  a  mist  of  yellow  hair. 
"Only  asleep,"  he  whispered.  He  was  hotly  flushed, 
and  with  a  line  cut  deep  between  his  drawn  brows. 

"Carl,  she  is  too  heavy — "  she  whispered  in  return. 

Mendall  only  frowned  and  hurried  on.  He  was  so 
forcibly  gripped  by  the  fear  that  she  would  make  him 
put  his  burden  down  that  he  went  faster  than  she.  He 
went  directly  through  the  living-room,  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  the  voice  behind  him.  He  kept  straight  on,  not 
halting  until  he  had  laid  Marie  on  her  own  bed.  He 
had  a  moment  then  before  Mrs.  Mendall  reached  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  He  knew  perfectly  well  what  he 
craved,  the  wish  the  tickling  hair  against  his  chin  had 
tantalized  into  desire.  He  bent  and  kissed  her,  a  quick 
close  pressure  upon  lips  that  her  waking  effort  parted 
beneath  his.  .  .  .  The  next  moment  he  was  in  the 
hall.  He  stood  before  his  wife,  white  now,  and  catch- 
ing his  breath. 

"Carl,  you  are  trembling  all  over — you  have  hurt 
yourself !"  she  exclaimed,  thoroughly  annoyed. 

"I  haven't — hurt — myself — "  he  declared  unevenly. 

"But  why  did  you  do  it  ?    Is  she  ill  ?" 

He  braced  himself  to  speak  more  collectedly.  "No. 
.  .  .  But  she  may  be,  after  lying  out  there  on  the 
ground.    She  had  cried  herself  to  sleep — I  didn't  want 


GETTING   AWAY   FROM   BOREDOM    87 

to  wake  her.  .  .  .  I'm  going  down  now  to  work, 
so  don't  disturb  me."  ' 

Mendall  shut  himself  up  in  the  studio,  and  hurriedly 
taking  up  his  palette,  dabbed  the  brush  in  the  oil  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  in  the  last  hour.  The  brush 
twitched  in  his  unsteady  fingers;  the  painting  before 
him  was  a  blur ;  he  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 

He  looked  down  in  a  shamed  way  at  the  foolish, 
trembling  things  he  was  trying  to  hold.  "Mad?"  he 
said  aloud.  "Yes — in  a  way.  .  .  .  It's  the  same 
everlasting  trying  to  get  away  from  boredom !" 

He  put  his  painting  paraphernalia  down,  and  going 
to  the  couch  lay  with  face  pressed  to  the  pillows,  while 
the  excitement  pounding  in  him  ebbed.  He  knew  then 
from  his  utter  weariness  that  he  had  strained  every 
muscle  in  his  body;  even  his  brain  was  inert.  .  .  . 
Then,  suddenly  and  unaccountably,  he  plunged  into 
sleep. 


XV 

SURMISES 

IF  MARIE  had  overheard  the  brief  conversation  in 
the  hall,  she  showed  no  sign  of  it  when  Mrs.  Men- 
dall  hurried  to  her  bedside. 

She  looked  bewildered.  "How  did  I  come  here, 
Madame?"  she  asked  huskily. 

"Mr.  Mendall  found  you  in  the  ravine — he  carried 
you  up,"  Mrs.  Mendall  said,  with  a  touch  of  acidity. 

She  was  thoroughly  disturbed.  It  was  just  like  Carl 
to  do  such  a  foolish  thing ;  and  like  him  to  hate  Marie 
the  more  for  having  moved  him  to  a  few  moments' 
pity.  If  he  had  hurt  his  back  she  would  come  near 
to  hating  the  girl  herself — in  spite  of  her  being  ill  and 
unfortunate.  Mrs.  Mendall's  feelings  were  somewhat 
mixed  and  not  altogether  clear  to  herself. 

"I  must  have  become  faint,"  Marie  said  softly. 

"Do  you  feel  ill?" 

"No,  Madame — I  only  wish  to  sleep."  She  closed 
her  eyes. 

"Perhaps  that  is  the  best  thing  for  you,"  Mrs.  Men- 
dall said  doubtfully.  "I  can  let  Mr.  MacAllister  know 
and  get  a  doctor  if  you  feel  ill." 

"No,  Madame — I  am  only  tired."  She  certainly 
looked  it,  heavy-eyed,  sallow,  exhausted. 

88 


SURMISES  89 

With  a  mingled  feeling  of  pity  and  repulsion,  Mrs. 
Mendall  covered  the  girl's  thin  body  and  bare  jaun- 
diced arms.  When  she  began  to  breathe  softly  and 
regularly  she  left  her.  Sleep  was,  of  course,  the  best 
restorative. 

But  as  soon  as  the  sound  of  steps  had  ceased,  Marie 
drew  herself  up  into  a  sitting  posture,  her  brows  drawn 
in  a  heavy  scowl.  She  lifted  the  hem  of  the  sheet  and 
wiped  her  lips,  her  brows  still  lowered  in  anger. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  relaxed  into  the  impish  mirth 
that  had  seized  her  when  she  had  discovered  the  tawny 
cat,  possibly  a  sudden  ebullition  of  overstrained  nerves. 
She  gathered  her  knees  in  her  arms  and  pressed  her 
face  against  them,  rocking  to  and  fro — until  galva- 
nized by  the  sound  of  steps,  she  straightened  out  into 
apparently  sound  slumber. 

It  was  Mrs.  Mendall  descending  to  the  living-room. 
She  had  paused  for  a  time  at  the  studio  door,  and  then 
gone  on;  the  caution  she  usually  used  in  dealing  with 
her  husband  had  kept  her  from  going  in.  If  he  was 
suffering  he  would  promptly  come  to  her  for  aid;  he 
always  did. 

And  when  at  dinner-time  he  appeared,  apparently 
refreshed  and  quite  himself,  she  made  no  reference 
to  the  incident  of  the  morning — except  to  say  that 
Marie  was  still  asleep.  For,  when  late  in  the  afternoon 
she  had  gone  up  to  see  how  she  was,  she  had  found 
that  the  girl  had  undressed  and  gone  to  bed  and  was 
apparently  sleeping  soundly. 

"Sleep  is  the  best  medicine  for  her.    She'll  be  about 


90  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

as  usual  to-morrow,"  Mendall  said  carelessly.  "Let  us 
sit  on  the  porch ;  it's  the  first  warm  night  of  the  season. 
We  are  certain  of  having  this  evening,  at  least,  to  our- 
selves." He  was  feeling  secretly  apologetic  to  his  wife 
for  his  unexplainable  lapse. 

When  darkness  came,  he  flung  a  cushion  down  be- 
side her  chair  and  sat  with  his  head  against  her  knees, 
not  talking  much,  but  with  an  occasional  caress  for  her 
hand.  Mrs.  Mendall  knew  that  it  was,  in  part,  his  way 
of  thanking  her  for  not  scolding.  He  was  a  boy,  in 
some  respects,  this  husband  of  hers,  and  a  very  lovable 
one,  in  spite  of  his  faults. 

But  it  was  of  the  girl  up-stairs  Mendall  was  think- 
ing, even  while  kissing  his  wife's  hand.  He  had 
studied  her  closely  as  she  lay  sleeping ;  there  were  sur- 
mises rioting  in  his  brain  which  he  did  not  care  to 
impart  to  his  wife. 


XVI 


THE  HINT  OF  THE  DUSKY 


BUT  for  some  obscure  reason  the  incident  of  that 
day  fixed  in  Mrs.  Mendall's  mind  the  conviction 
that  Marie  was  not  destined  to  be  liked  by  any  member 
of  the  household.  It  increased  rather  than  lessened 
her  pity  for  the  girl,  and  as  pity  may  be  compounded  of 
repulsion  and  a  certain  amount  of  solicitude,  Mrs. 
Mendall  was  clear  as  to  her  own  feelings. 

But  Margaret  Mendall  regulated  her  life  in  accord- 
ance with  plan.  Her  likes  and  her  dislikes  and  most  of 
her  thoughts  were  hidden  things.  She  had  a  deeply 
embedded  prejudice  against  MacAllister,  and  yet  the 
dimple  in  her  cheek  welcomed  him,  and  never  more 
demurely  than  the  first  time  he  came  to  visit  his  ward. 

"Weel,  do  I  find  a  united  household?"  he  asked,  as 
his  car  drew  up  at  the  steps. 

"I  think  so." 

"My  ward  has  settled  in  peaceably?" 

"She  is  no  trouble.  It  must  be  good  for  her  here, 
for  she  is  looking  so  much  better  already." 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands.  He  took 
note  of  her,  from  her  neatly  dressed  hair  to  her  tiny 
slippered  feet.  "I  should  think  it  would  be  'good  for* 
any  one  here."    As  on  the  first  day  he  had  seen  her, 

91 


92  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

he  liked  her  pretty-mannered  aloofness.  Her  care- 
fully-covered dislike  of  him  amused  him. 

"Shall  I  tell  Marie  you  are  here?" 

"No.  When  I  turned  in  from  the  boulevard  I  saw 
her  climbing  Twin  Oaks  Hill.  I'll  follow  her  pres- 
ently." 

"She  is  out-of-doors  most  of  the  time.  I  thought 
she  ought  not  to  take  up  her  drawing  until  she  is 
stronger." 

"Ye're  right,"  he  agreed  decidedly. 

"I  shall  take  her  next  week  to  do  some  shopping." 

"Whenever  ye're  ready.  Let  me  know  and  I'll  send 
the  car  to  bring  ye  in." 

"Marie  seems  to  like  rich  colors,"  Mrs.  Mendall 
ventured. 

A  shadow  crossed  his  face  which  he  covered  by  a 
slight  grimace.  "I'm  afraid  that's  a  predilection  you'll 
not  be  able  to  eradicate.  I  went  shopping  for  her  and 
you  see  the  result.  But  let  her  have  her  way.  It's  a 
small  matter  to  us,  and  it  may  mean  a  deal  to  her.  I 
believe  women  take  their  moods  from  the  clothes  they 
wear — particularly  women  who  have  a  passion  for 
color.  .  .  .  And  now  I'll  go  see  what  Marie  has 
to  say  for  herself." 

When  Mrs.  Mendall  took  him  around  to  the  terrace 
to  show  him  the  path  that  led  down  to  the  ravine,  Men- 
dall saw  them  from  the  studio  window  above.  He  had 
been  watching  Marie.  He  watched  MacAllister  now 
in  the  same  absorbed  way,  as  he  went  down  into  the 


THE   HINT   OF   THE   DUSKY  93 

ravine  and  then  emerged  from  the  cottonwoods.  Men- 
dall  was  keen-sighted  and  could  see  the  meeting  on  the 
hillside.  MacAllister  reached  her,  and  then  his  figure 
blotted  her  out.  The  next  moment  he  had  taken  her 
arm,  and  so,  his  hand  upon  her,  they  disappeared  over 
the  crown  of  the  hill. 

Mendall  turned  back  into  the  studio,  frowning. 
Margaret  had  her  convictions  as  to  those  two.  He  also 
had  his,  but  they  differed  from  hers.  He  had  over- 
heard the  day  before  what  amounted  to  a  row  in  the 
kitchen : 

"Where  was  that  girl  raised,  what's  stayin'  here?" 
Lucy  was  demanding  of  Margaret. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  told  her. 

"Huh!  Reckon  she  think  herse'f  somebody'  No- 
body ain't  worth  her  speakin'  to." 

"She  is  very  shy,"  Mrs.  Mendall  explained.  "She 
scarcely  speaks  even  to  Mr.  Mendall  and  myself,  but 
we  would  never  think  of  being  hurt  over  it." 

"She  can  speak  fast  enough  when  she's  a-mind  to !" 
the  woman  stormed.  "She  didn't  look  shy  to  me  when 
she  done  turn  me  outen  her  room  jes'  now !" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Lucy?"  Mrs.  Mendall  had 
asked. 

"She  come  up  an'  foun*  me  cleanin'  her  room.  I 
jes'  pass  her  the  time  of  day,  an'  her  eyes  done  shut  up 
like  slits ;  she  look  at  me  like  she  goin'  ter  bite.  'You 
do  your  work  after  this  when  I'm  not  about,'  she  says, 
an'  flingin'  de  door  open,  pointed  me  down  de  stairs !" 


94  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"How  strange!  She  must  have  been  feeling  ill," 
Mrs.  Mendall  soothed. 

Lucy  had  laughed  shrilly:  "Huh!" 

"She  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,"  Mendall  had  heard 
his  wife  say.  "We  must  remember  that  she  has  been 
brought  up  in  Europe.  Her  manners  are  strange  to 
us.    Don't  think  any  more  about  it." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  thinkin'  about  her,"  Lucy  declared 
scornfully.  "She  can  keep  outen  my  way,  an'  I'll  keep 
outen  hers,  but  jes'  let  her  bite  at  me  again,  an'  I'll 
sure  ask  her  where'd  she  get  her  yellow  face?" 

"If  you  do  any  such  unpardonable  thing,  you  will  go, 
and  at  a  moment's  notice,"  Mrs.  Mendall  had  said 
sternly.  "Miss  Ogilvie  is  my  guest,  and  a  rudeness  to 
her  is  a  rudeness  to  me." 

"I  ain't  layin'  to  be  rude,"  the  mulatto  woman  pro- 
tested, somewhat  subdued.  "We  jes'  naturally  hates 
each  other." 

Mendall  had  been  deeply  interested  in  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"You  heard  the  commotion,  of  course,  Carl?"  Mrs. 
Mendall  said  to  him  afterward. 

"Yes."  He  was  always  succinctly  indifferent  when 
Marie  was  mentioned. 

"They  do  hate  each  other.  Marie  treats  Lucy  as  if 
she  were  empty  air,  and  Lucy  shows  the  whites  of  her 
eyes  whenever  she  comes  near  the  girl." 

"Better  hire  a  white  woman  if  you  want  to  avoid 
trouble." 

Mrs.  Mendall  gave  him  a  quick  glance  and  fell  into 


THE   HINT    OF    THE    DUSKY  95 

silence.  It  was  plain  to  her  that  he  was  repelled  by  the 
hint  of  the  dusky  in  Marie — just  as  she  was. 

Presently  she  remarked :  "Do  you  notice  how  much 
better  Marie  is  looking?  Her  skin  is  clearing.  I  think 
when  her  face  gets  fuller  she  may  be  good  looking — 
in  a  way." 

"Possibly.  Her  hair  is  astonishing,"  he  returned,  so 
coldly  that  Mrs.  Mendall  dropped  the  subject.  He  ap- 
peared to  like  Marie  as  little  as  did  Lucy.  He  avoided 
her  as  much  as  possible.  It  might  be  hard  to  keep  the 
peace  when  it  came  time  for  him  to  give  her  lessons; 
almost  impossible  if  she  proved  stupid. 

The  truth  was  that  Mendall  was  completely  inter- 
ested in  studying  Marie.  He  was  painting  absorbedly 
and  at  the  same  time  watching  the  girl.  He  could  have 
told  his  wife  far  more  than  she  could  tell  him  about 
the  change  which  was  taking  place  in  Marie's  appear- 
ance. She  fattened  as  rapidly  as  a  starved  animal.  He 
was  well  aware  that  her  sallowness  was  changing  to 
the  color  one  sees  in  rich  cream ;  that  her  lips  were  be- 
ginning to  show  carmine ;  and  that  as  her  thin  cheeks 
gained  fuller  contour  her  mouth  appeared  less  full- 
lipped.     She  was  fast  losing  her  haggard  look. 

He  could  also  have  told  his  wife  how  completely 
Marie  was  absorbing  her  new  environment  through 
those  tawny  eyes  of  hers.  She  asked  no  questions, 
never  obtruded  herself.  She  spoke  to  express  her  few 
needs,  or  in  return  to  polite  greetings — that  was  all. 
She  had  her  method  with  each  member  of  the  house- 
hold :  throughout  the  first  week  she  did  not  once  look 


96  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

into  Mendall's  eyes;  to  Mrs.  Mendall  she  was  remote 
but  instantly  obedient;  the  mulatto  woman  she  did 
not  see.  Except  at  meal  times  she  was  in  her  room  or 
out-of-doors.  She  would  find  a  spot  not  too  near  the 
house  and  sit  by  the  hour  in  the  May  sunshine,  doing 
nothing,  apparently  not  even  thinking. 

Though  there  were  plenty  of  opportunities,  Mendall 
did  not  attempt  to  talk  to  her.  Even  when  his  evening 
walks  took  him  near  some  spot  where  she  sat  motion- 
less, catching  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  he  would 
pass  her  with  merely  a  brief,  "Buenos  noches,  Seno- 
rital"  But  shut  up  in  his  studio  he  eagerly  painted  a 
recollection  of  the  Isthmus  which  the  constant  sight  of 
Marie's  haggard  face  kept  vivid.  He  rose  at  extraor- 
dinary hours  to  do  it,  and  rushed  home  from  his 
hated  classes  to  continue.  When  the  light  failed  him 
he  turned  his  easel  to  the  wall  and  went  for  long  walks 
in  the  country.  He  forgot  Mrs.  Bagsby;  for  a  week 
he  made  no  effort  to  see  her.  Sometimes  he  wondered, 
half  guiltily  and  half  mischievously  whether  Marie 
had  waked  in  time  to  realize  his  kiss;  she  kept  her 
eyes  so  determinedly  lowered. 

But  his  thoughts,  his  surmises  and  his  suspicions  and 
what  he  was  painting  and  why  he  was  painting  it, 
Mendall  kept  strictly  to  himself.  He  had  had  too  many 
examples  of  his  wife's  watchful  guardianship  of  his 
errant  fancies.  Marie  had  brought  him  both  interest 
and  distraction.  Out  of  his  various  surmises  he  had 
selected  a  few  certainties:  Marie  Ogilvie  might  be 
both  Scotch  and  French,  but  she  was  something  else 


THE    HINT    OF   THE    DUSKY  97 

as  well;  she  was  no  inexperienced  girl;  and  Mendall 
did  not  believe,  with  his  wife,  that  Marie  was  MacAl- 
lister's  daughter. 

And  now,  when  he  turned  abruptly  from  the  window 
after  watching  MacAllister  and  his  ward  disappear 
over  the  crest  of  Twin  Oaks  Hill,  it  was  to  stretch  a 
canvas  as  ample  as  the  one  he  had  given  to  Mrs. 
Bagsby's  portrait;  in  a  few  days  Marie  would  be  his 
pupil.  He  had  definite  intentions  regarding  Marie 
Ogilvie. 

And,  as  he  worked  and  occasionally  glanced  at  the 
hillside  opposite  to  see  what  had  become  of  the  two, 
his  thoughts  escaped  him  in  a  brief  sentence :  "She's  a 
half-breed  Delilah,  down  on  her  luck — or  I'm  a  fool!" 


XVII 

THE  WILDCAT  AND  THE  PANTHER 

BUT  Marie  appeared  to  be  in  no  haste  to  begin 
her  drawing  lessons.  She  showed  far  more  in- 
terest in  her  wardrobe. 

As  MacAllister  had  promised,  Townley  brought  the 
car  for  them  the  following  week.  Mrs.  Mendall  no- 
ticed that  Marie  adapted  herself  to  the  cushioned  ease 
of  the  car  and  to  Townley's  obsequious  attentions  with 
her  usual  air  of  superb  indifference.  As  she  lay  back, 
silent  as  always,  and  with  slow  gaze  for  the  country, 
it  struck  Mrs.  Mendall  that  there  was  something  in- 
nately regal  about  the  girl.  Her  long  cloak  hung  upon 
her,  her  hat,  one  of  MacAllister's  choosing,  was  unbe- 
coming, and  the  sickly  hue  still  muddied  her  skin; 
nevertheless  she  was  an  arresting  personality. 

Mrs.  Mendall  discovered  that  even  the  chance  way- 
farer took  note  of  Marie.  They  had  gone  for  about 
a  mile  along  the  boulevard  when  they  passed  a  motor- 
cyclist who  had  stopped  to  photograph  Penn's  Point, 
a  view  of  the  Missouri  frequently  photographed  and 
always  pointed  out  to  the  tourist.  He  was  too  busy 
with  his  kodak  to  give  more  than  a  glance  to  them,  but 
a  mile  farther  along,  when  Townley  stopped  for  what 

98 


THE   WILDCAT    AND    THE    PANTHER       99 

was  only  too  evidently  a  badly  collapsed  tire,  the 
cyclist  passed  them,  giving  them  an  interested  stare 
as  he  went. 

He  rode  on  for  some  little  distance,  then  turned  and 
came  back.    "Want  help?"  he  asked  the  chauffeur. 

Townley  was  evidently  thoroughly  put  out  by  the 
necessity  of  adjusting  a  new  tire  and  the  consequent 
delay.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Mendall  that  he  was  anxious 
to  make  a  good  impression  on  Marie,  he  was  so  mark- 
edly deferential;  as  if  in  some  way  he  had  displeased 
her,  and  was  trying  to  gain  her  good  will.  He  had 
apologized  to  Marie  for  the  delay,  looking  troubled  as 
he  did  so. 

But  his  answer  to  the  cyclist  was  curt:  "No." 

It  did  not  send  him  away,  however.  He  did  that 
most  irritating  of  things — he  stood  about  and  watched 
Townley  work,  offering  a  word  of  advice  now  and 
then. 

The  chauffeur  concealed  his  annoyance  with  dif- 
ficulty; he  apologized  again  to  Marie.  "I'm  sorry, 
Miss,  I'll  'ave  it  on  presently.  I  'ope  it'll  not  make  you 
late,  Miss?" 

"It  does  not  matter,"  Marie  said  coldly. 

Though  he  looked  a  gentleman,  the  intruder  ap- 
peared to  be  a  busybody.  "He  ran  chances  starting 
out  with  that  tire.  It's  a  good  thing  you  have  an- 
other," he  remarked  to  Marie. 

Marie  had  studied  him  in  her  sleepily  intent  way 
when  he  had  first  appeared,  taken  note  of  his  small 
slim  body  neatly  attired  in  corduroy,  and  his  dark 


100  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

face,  to  which  a  goatee  and  mustache  gave  an  air  of 
distinction.  His  motor-glasses  hid  most  of  the  upper 
part  of  his  face.  One  might  suppose  him  an  American 
until  he  spoke;  then  it  was  evident,  from  his  slight 
accent,  that  he  was  a  foreigner  of  some  sort. 

Marie  made  no  answer;  she  did  not  even  look  at 
him.  Mrs.  Mendall  felt  that  it  was  not  incumbent 
upon  her  to  say  anything,  and  Townley  also  treated 
the  remark  with  silence,  though  his  irritation  was 
plainly  enough  shown  by  the  way  in  which  he  flung  the 
cut  tire  aside,  in  such  fashion  that  it  struck  the  in- 
truder's feet. 

Whether  in  resentment  of  the  snubs  to  which  he  had 
subjected  himself,  or  out  of  mischief,  the  cyclist  drew 
away  a  little  and,  unslinging  his  kodak,  deliberately 
photographed  them. 

Townley  lifted  from  his  work  just  in  time  to  see 
what  he  had  done.  He  sprang  up.  "See,  'ere !  You 
put  that  up !"  he  said  angrily. 

The  man  laughed  at  him,  though  he  made  haste  to 
remove  himself  and  his  cycle  to  a  safe  distance.  "The 
public  highway  is  free  to  all,"  he  declared.  Then  as 
he  mounted  and  made  off,  he  called  over  his  shoulder 
to  the  irate  chauffeur:  "Don't  be  so  rude  next  time 
some  one  offers  you  help,  my  man !" 

Townley  set  to  work  again,  red  in  the  face  and  mut- 
tering. 

Marie  made  no  comment  on  what  had  passed,  and 
Mrs.  Mendall  thought  little  of  the  incident,  except  that 
it  had  been  disagreeable,  until  they  came  into  Laclasse 


THE   WILDCAT   AND   THE   PANTHER     l'Ol 

and  she  noticed  that  Marie  seemed  to  be  marked  for 
attention.  Then  she  thought  it  quite  possible  that  the 
cyclist  had  hung  about  in  Ofljeij  to  -  Icbl':  r+t  the  ^irl. 
There  was  the  usual  morning  crowd  on  the  upward 
slope  of  Broad  Street,  and  an  even  larger  number  of 
automobiles  than  usual,  for  all  feminine  Laclasse  ap- 
peared to  be  spring  shopping.  Every  one  who  glanced 
at  their  car  looked  at  Marie;  many  looked  a  second 
time.  Some,  Mrs.  Mendall  knew,  recognized  Mac- 
Allister's  car;  Laclasse  was  still  a  town,  with  a  town's 
characteristics.  But  the  weather-dried  farmers,  as  well, 
as  the  paler-skinned  tourists  bound  either  for  the  Pa- 
cific Coast  or  the  East,  also  stared  at  Marie. 

They  passed  people  whom  Mrs.  Mendall  knew.  An- 
drew Kraup  and  his  son,  Ellis,  stood  for  a  moment 
beside  their  car  at  a  crowded  crossing,  and  Mrs.  Men- 
dall saw  how  intently  both  men  studied  Marie.  It  was 
town  talk  that  the  war  was  hitting  Andrew  Kraup' s 
firm  hard,  and  that  MacAllister  was  making  a  mint 
of  money  out  of  what  was  his  rival's  misfortune,  and 
that  Kraup  was  bitter  over  it.  It  was  natural  he 
should  be  interested  in  the  queer  girl  who  sat  so  re- 
gally enthroned  in  MacAllister's  car.  They  doubtless 
wondered  how  she  herself  came  to  be  there.  Even 
after  they  moved  on,  Mrs.  Mendall's  backward  glance 
showed  the  two  men  rooted  to  the  curb  and  still 
staring. 

Their  next  encounter  was  one  which  deepened  the 
pink  in  Mrs.  Mendall's  cheeks ;  they  waited  for  a  few 
moments  side  by  side  with  Mrs.  Bagsby's  car.    Clare, 


102  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

who  was  with  her  stepmother,  nodded  and  smiled  in 
her  usual"  friendly  fashion : 

"Buying  hat's,  too?"  she  asked.  She  also  looked  at 
Marie. 

Mrs.  Bagsby  bowed  and  smiled  languidly.  Her 
dark-fringed  violet  eyes  rested  on  Mrs.  Mendall  for  a 
mere  moment,  crossed  Marie's  sleepy  gaze,  enveloped 
MacAllister's  car,  and  came  back  to  Marie.  Marie 
had  given  Mrs.  Bagsby's  immediate  surroundings 
much  the  same  comprehensive  attention.  On  Mrs. 
Bagsby  she  bestowed  a  continuance  of  her  sleepy  re- 
gard. 

On  entering  Borrough  Nast's,  the  principal  empo- 
rium of  Laclasse,  Marie  showed  that  she  needed  no 
assistance  from  Mrs.  Mendall.  She  took  the  lead.  To 
the  floor-walker  she  announced:  "I  wish  to  have  silk 
undergarments." 

But  when  shown  the  counter,  she  disdained  it. 
"Have  you  no  room  where  you  show  such  things?" 
she  asked  regally. 

"There  is  the  show-room  where  we  display  our  im- 
ported models,"  the  man  said  in  dignified  surprise  at 
the  unusual  request. 

"Ah,  you  have  costumes  also,  then!  You  will  take 
me  there ;  I  wish  many  things." 

It  was  soon  evident  that  she  "wished  many  things," 
and  of  a  make  not  to  be  procured  in  Laclasse.  Both 
evening  and  street  costumes  were  shown  her,  but  she 
declined  to  retire  into  a  fitting-room  with  any  of  them. 
She  showed  open  contempt  for  the  short-waisted,  wide, 


THE    WILDCAT    AND    THE   PANTHER     103 

gathered  skirts  eulogized  by  the  girl  who  waited  upon 
her.    She  demanded  long  lines  and  warm  colors. 

Marie  finally  dismissed  the  gowns  with  a  gesture, 
annihilating  with  a  glance  the  insistence  of  the  shop 
girl.  "I  wish  nothing  of  this  sort.  They  are  not  the 
right  make.    You  will  remove  them." 

"You'll  not  find  anything  handsomer  in  Laclasse," 
the  girl  retorted  with  asperity.  "They're  good  models, 
all  right." 

"Doubtless — but  I  do  not  wish  them,"  Marie  re- 
turned. "Kindly  have  silk  undergarments  sent  up 
to  me." 

"You'll  find  them  down-stairs,"  the  girl  said  with 
American  bruskness. 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  about  to  intervene  when  the  head 
of  the  department  appeared.  She  was  a  clever  sales 
woman  who  visited  New  York  every  year.  She  com- 
prehended Marie  at  once,  and  whispered  her  instruc- 
tions to  the  shop  girl.  "But  that's  last  year's  and  the 
lace  overdress  's  sold,"  the  girl  objected. 

"You  get  it,"  the  woman  ordered,  "and  then  tell 
them  to  send  up  whatever  she  asks  for." 

"It"  proved  to  be  a  long  garment  of  some  light, 
satiny  mesh,  dull  gold  in  color,  when  the  light  struck 
it,  almost  russet.  It  was  a  clinging  thing,  with  neither 
sleeves  nor  collar. 

"Here  is  a  lovely  thing,"  the  woman  said. 

At  the  sight  of  the  garment  Marie's  eyes  narrowed 
and  she  rose.  She  held  its  flexible  length  against  her 
slim  body,  twisted  and  turned  before  the  glass,  in- 


104  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

tently  observant  of  line  and  color.  By  some  chance  the 
really  artistic  thing  had  stranded  in  Laclasse  and  had 
not  found  an  admirer. 

"I  will  put  this  on,"  Marie  announced. 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  uncomfortably  conscious  that 
Marie  had  an  audience.  Mrs.  Bagsby  and  Clare  had 
appeared  a  few  moments  before,  and,  though  Mrs. 
Bagsby  was  inspecting  motor-coats,  Mrs.  Mendall 
knew  it  was  Marie  she  was  watching.  Mrs.  Mendall 
had  no  doubt  that  they  had  been  purposely  followed, 
and  as  she  had  no  intention  of  introducing  Marie,  or 
in  any  other  way  satisfying  Mrs.  Bagsby 's  curiosity, 
she  kept  her  back  turned. 

When  Marie  came  from  the  fitting-room  swathed  in 
red-gold  and  sat  down  elbow  on  knee  and  chin  in  hand 
to  examine  in  leisurely  fashion  the  undergarments  that 
were  now  heaped  about  her,  Mrs.  Mendall  was  con- 
scious that  Mrs.  Bagsby  forgot  finesse  and  stared. 

They  all  did  for  that  matter,  for  Marie  was  an  ar- 
resting vision.  She  had  emerged  definitely  a  woman, 
and  a  striking  one.  The  clinging  flexibility  of  her 
gown  accentuated  her  suppleness;  it's  red-gold  paled 
her  skin  to  a  creamy  pallor,  and  her  two  bronze  braids 
which  she  had  wound  about  her  head  gave  her  height 
and  dignity.  And  yet,  curiously  enough,  she  looked 
more  youthful.  There  was  less  of  the  haggard  girl, 
and  more  of  the  very  young  woman  about  her.  Her 
air  of  supreme  calm  became  her  better. 

Marie  seemed  entirely  oblivious  of  the  sensation  she 
had  created.    Her  method  of  choosing  lingerie  amused 


THE   WILDCAT   AND   THE   PANTHER     105 

them  all;  she  rubbed  the  garment  against  her  cheek, 
after  the  fashion  of  an  oriental  rug-dealer,  and  if  its 
texture  pleased  her,  she  ordered  it  to  be  laid  aside  as 
chosen. 

The  pile  grew  to  such  dimensions  that  Mrs.  Mendall 
became  uneasy.  Silk  stockings  Marie  appropriated  by 
the  dozen.  When  she  announced  that  she  wished, 
after  choosing  a  motor-coat  and  bonnet,  to  visit  a 
dressmaker  who  would  be  capable  of  artistic  creations, 
and  was  directed  to  Miss  Fuchs,  Mrs.  Mendall  was 
really  alarmed. 

While  Marie  was  trying  on  a  long  red  silk  motor- 
coat,  Mrs.  Mendall  sought  a  telephone.  It  was  Mac- 
Allister's  voice  that  answered. 

"And  how  do  ye  do,  Mrs.  Mendall  ?" 

"Marie  and  I  are  at  Borroughs  Nast's,"  Mrs.  Men- 
dall said  a  little  breathlessly,  "and  I  feel  I  must  ask 
your  advice — do  you  want  us  to  keep  within  any  speci- 
fied sum  ?" 

"So  my  ward's  buying  Borroughs  Nast's  out,  is 
she?" 

"No — no!  It's  just  that  everything  she  is  getting 
is  so  expensive.  For  instance,  the  gown  she  has  chosen 
is  seventy  dollars,  and  the  motor-coat  I  think  she  will 
choose  is  fifty." 

Mac  Alii  ster's  chuckle  reached  her.  "They're  both 
red,  I'll  be  bound." 

"Yes,  they  are." 

"Weel,  I  think  I'd  let  her  have  them,  Mrs.  Mendall." 


106  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"There  will  be  other  things,  too.  She  wants  to  go 
to  Miss  Fuchs — you  know  she  is  very  expensive." 

"Never  mind.    Let  her  have  what  she  wants." 

"I  am  sorry  I  troubled  you;  but  I  didn't  know 
whether  you  would  approve." 

"It's  all  right;  ye're  never  any  trouble  at  all." 

Mrs.  Mendall  returned  in  time  to  witness  an  inci- 
dent. Mrs.  Bagsby  had  insinuated  herself  into  Marie's 
neighborhood.  Marie  was  adjusting  before  the  mirror 
a  red  motor  bonnet.  Mrs.  Bagsby  in  a  pale  blue  motor- 
coat  stood  at  her  elbow,  making  use  of  the  same  mir- 
ror. 

"We  ought  not  to  stand  anywhere  near  each  other, 
should  we?"  Mrs.  Mendall  heard  her  say  in  a  voice 
rippling  with  laughter. 

Marie  appeared  to  be  conscious  of  her  presence  for 
the  first  time.  She  turned  and  studied  the  intruder 
gravely.  There  was  a  perceptible  pause  before  she  an- 
swered, and  then  it  was  softly  and  in  French.  "In  a 
room  with  many  mirrors  it  should  not  be  necessary." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  answered  with  only  a  somewhat  blank 
smile,  and  Marie  interpreted  her  remark  deliberately. 
"In  a  room  with  many  mirrors  it  should  not  be  neces- 
sary. ...  I  perceive  that  Madame  does  not  un- 
derstand French;  also  that  she  has  a  predilection  for 
this  mirror."  The  cool  indolence  of  Marie's  husky 
tones  needed  no  interpretation. 

Mrs.  Bagsby  flushed  crimson  as  she  moved  off,  mur- 
muring a  "Pardon  me." 


THE   WILDCAT    AND   THE    PANTHER     107 

Clare,  who  was  seated,  waiting  for  her  stepmother, 
rose  in  haste  and  went  to  the  window,  Mrs.  Mendall 
guessed  that  she  might  laugh  unobserved,  and  Marie 
was  left  in  possession  of  her  mirror.  Her  yellow 
glance  swept  them  all;  then  she  became  absorbed,  as 
before,  in  her  purchase. 

Though  inwardly  smiling,  Mrs.  Mendall  greeted 
Mrs.  Bagsby  gravely  as  she  passed  her.  .  .  .  And 
she  had  actually  imagined,  in  the  beginning,  that  Marie 
was  shy! 

Mrs.  Mendall  reflected  in  grim  amusement  that 
Marie  certainly  had  some  of  MacAllister's  hard  fiber; 
the  girl  knew  perfectly  well  how  to  take  care  of  her- 
self. And  it  was  also  plain  that  she  had  made  an  en- 
emy. Mrs.  Bagsby  scrutinized  their  departure  so 
smilelessly.  From  the  garments  she  had  chosen  Mrs. 
Mendall  judged  that  Marie  meant  to  see  something  of 
Laclasse  society.  At  the  very  outset  Marie  had  flung 
her  gauntlet  in  the  face  of  one  of  Laclasse's  social 
leaders;  Mrs.  Bagsby  might  make  it  a  little  disagree- 
able for  her  later  on. 

Mrs.  Mendall  felt  that  their  day  together  had  given 
her  a  better  knowledge  of  MacAllister's  daughter. 
She  liked  her  no  better,  though  she  was  forced  to  grant 
that  the  girl  had  intelligence — of  a  kind. 


XV1I1 

"BUT  I  PLEASE  YOU?' 

MRS.  MEND  ALL  learned  more  of  Marie  in  the 
ten  days  that  followed.  She  discovered  that 
there  was  one  person  to  whom  Marie  was  sweet,  sub- 
missive and  attentive — and  that  was  MacAllister. 

His  daughter  certainly  pleased  him,  for  he  came  to 
see  her  almost  every  day,  riding  over  from  the  plant, 
which  was  in  full  operation  now.  He  came  usually  in 
the  evening,  after  closing  hour  at  the  plant,  and  often 
he  remained  until  late.  Sometimes  he  walked  with 
Marie  up  the  slope  of  Twin  Oaks  Hill,  or  he  took  her 
riding  with  him,  or,  on  inclement  evenings,  they  sat  in 
the  reception  room. 

It  became  evident  that  Marie  had  MacAllister  in 
mind  when  she  had  made  her  extravagant  purchases. 
Mrs.  Mendall  remembered  that  he  had  said  he  liked  to 
see  women  wear  pretty  things.  Marie  always  made 
herself  beautiful  for  his  coming.  Her  brilliant  kimono, 
anything,  provided  it  was  loose  and  comfortable, 
served  her  during  the  day,  but  at  supper  she  was 
always  gowned  in  her  best.  She  made  a  golden  coro- 
net of  her  hair,  and  lessened  the  yellow  in  her  skin  by 
a  careful  use  of  powder.  With  the  exception  of  two 
simple  street  costumes,  Miss  Fuchs'  creations  were  all 

108 


"BUT   I    PLEASE   YOU?"  109 

designed  for  afternoon  or  evening  wear,  and  all  of 
rich  enough  colors  to  pale  her  skin. 

Mrs.  Mendall  understood  now  her  love  of  flame  red 
and  the  combinations  of  red  and  gold;  she  looked 
whiter  in  those  colors.  The  one  cream-colored  gown 
upon  which  Marie  ventured  was  of  so  deep  a  shade  that 
it  paled  her  skin.  She  evidently  abhorred  the  jaun- 
diced hue  fever  had  given  her.  Mrs.  Mendall  sus- 
pected that  she  had  just  as  little  liking  for  the  warm 
creamy  tint  that  was  natural  to  her  in  health. 

MacAllister's  eyes  had  widened  when  he  saw  her 
for  the  first  time  in  her  red-gold  sheathe  and  with  hair 
high.  Marie  had  come  down  to  the  porch,  so  Mrs. 
Mendall  had  witnessed  their  meeting. 

"Eh,  child,  but  ye' re  a  sight!"  he  exclaimed.  He 
eyed  her  appreciatively. 

Marie  smiled;  it  was  one  of  the  few  times  Mrs. 
Mendall  had  seen  her  smile.  "But  I  please  you?"  she 
asked  softly. 

"Ye're  just  plain  beautiful;  it's  that  I'm  thinking," 
he  said,  with  almost  lover-like  enthusiasm. 

In  her  own  mind,  Mrs.  Mendall  did  not  agree  with 
him ;  Marie  was  certainly  brilliant  and  strange  looking, 
but  far  from  beautiful.  She  was  his  daughter;  it  was 
only  natural  that  he  should  see  beauty  in  her  when 
others  did  not. 

But  Marie  seemed  satisfied. 

MacAllister  looked  next  at  her  small  bronze  slippers. 
"Are  ye  proposing  to  walk  up  Twin  Oaks  Hill  with  me, 
in  those  ?"  he  demanded  amusedly.    There  was  a  boy- 


110  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

ish  air  about  him  when  he  smiled  and  teased  in  this 
fashion. 

Marie  lifted  her  skirt  and  looked  at  her  slippers  with 
the  air  of  a  naughty  child.  Mrs.  Mendall  was  forced 
to  grant  that  the  girl's  feet  were  beautiful;  as  small  as 
her  own,  and  more  shapely.  Marie  looked  at  MacAl- 
lister  from  beneath  her  lashes.  "I  will  put  on  others  if 
you  wish — I  will  take  the  dress  off,  also?" 

"Oh,  no,  ye'll  not!"  MacAllister  returned  quickly. 
"That  stage  dress  becomes  ye.  Just  get  yer  coat  and 
we'll  ride." 

But  when  Marie  had  gone,  MacAllister  remarked 
gravely:  "Watching  over  a  girl's  a  bit  of  a  respon- 
sibility." 

Mrs.  Mendall  agreed  with  him,  but  she  did  not  add 
that  she  thought  he  had  a  particularly  difficult  problem 
on  his  hands.  He  probably  realized  that.  His  next  re- 
mark certainly  showed  solicitude. 

"If  I  were  better  acquainted  with  the  child,  I'd  know 
better  how  to  plan  for  her." 

"She  seems  fond  of  you,  and  eager  to  please  you;  it 
is  affection  that  makes  children  obedient." 

He  made  no  reply,  and  Mrs.  Mendall  thought  he 
looked  uncomfortable.  She  took  herself  to  task,  for 
she  felt  she  had  come  a  little  too  near  his  secret. 

He  said  no  more  until  Marie  returned  in  her  new 
motor-coat  and  bonnet.  He  took  note  of  them  also. 
"So  that's  yer  automobile  outfit,  is  it  ?"  He  studied  her 
admiringly.    "It  suits  ye,  I  must  say.    A  regular  red- 


"BUT    I    PLEASE   YOU?"  HI 

bird,  ye  are.  .  .  .  Weel,  let's  go  show  ourselves 
on  the  boulevard." 

As  the  days  passed  it  was  more  and  more  evident 
that  his  daughter  had  taken  hold  on  him.  He  rarely 
moved  his  eyes  from  her  when  they  were  together.  She 
appeared  to  amuse  and  interest  him  completely.  He 
almost  always  brought  her  a  gift  when  he  came.  She 
made  him  laugh  and  smile — and  frown,  too,  on  oc- 
casion.   His  was  certainly  the  air  of  possession. 

And  it  was  evident  that  his  coming  was  the  event 
of  the  day  to  Marie.  Mendall  could  have  told  his  wife 
how  impatiently  Marie  walked  the  floor  when  for  some 
reason  MacAllister  did  not  come,  and  how  like  a  rest- 
less animal  she  padded  about  her  room  after  MacAl- 
lister brought  her  back  from  some  ride  or  walk.  Her 
room  was  directly  over  his  studio,  and  when  his  fre- 
quent attacks  of  sleeplessness  kept  him  sitting  late  over 
a  book,  or  when  he  came  in  from  walks  that  lasted 
until  midnight,  he  often  listened  to  Marie's  movements. 
If  MacAllister  was  exercised  over  her,  she  was  cer- 
tainly no  less  exercised  over  him. 

Mendall  was  getting  restless.  During  those  ten  days 
when  Marie  was  busied  with  her  wardrobe  and  MacAl- 
lister, nothing  had  been  said  about  her  drawing  lessons. 
He  had  finished  the  painting  which  had  absorbed  him. 
He  waited  in  secret  impatience  and  outward  indiffer- 
ence for  the  thing  he  wanted :  for  Marie  to  become  his 
pupil.  He  did  not  venture  to  question,  but  suspense 
never  sat  gracefully  on  him. 


112  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

It  got  the  better  of  him  one  evening,  the  night  of  the 
twelfth  of  May;  Marie  had  been  with  them  now 
for  three  weeks.  He  had  come  out  to  the  porch,  to  his 
wife,  just  after  MacAllister  had  ridden  off  with  Marie. 
Ordinarily  he  was  not  to  be  drawn  into  talk  about  her, 
but  to-night  he  looked  after  Marie's  red-cloaked  figure 
with  bent  brows. 

"So  the  Sefiorita  has  gone  forth  again  in  her  Span- 
ish colors,"  he  remarked  sarcastically. 

Mendall  always  addressed  Marie  as  "Sefiorita,"  and 
always  with  the  faintest  suggestion  of  mockery.  And 
Marie  always  called  him  "Senor,"  and  with  equal  in- 
dications of  antagonism. 

"I  wish  you  didn't  dislike  her  so  much,  Carl,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  returned. 

"I  don't  dislike  her,"  he  protested,  with  less  show  of 
irritation.    "I  understand  her,  that's  all." 

"I  don't  find  her  likable,  either,"  Mrs.  Mendall  con- 
fessed. "I  doubt  if  any  one  but  Mr.  MacAllister  will. 
He  certainly  is  fond  of  her,  and  she  seems  to  be  of  him. 
It's  natural,  of  course." 

"She's  making  herself  solid  with  him — that's  the 
first  and  most  important  thing  to  her,"  Mendall  said 
dryly. 

"You  mean  she  is  'working'  him,  Carl  ?" 

"Of  course  she  is." 

"Perhaps  she  is,"  Mrs.  Mendall  said  thoughtfully. 
Then  she  smiled  at  him.  "But  it's  not  a  matter  that 
need  concern  us.  It's  the  first  time  you  have  shown 
any  interest  in  her,  Carl." 


"BUT    I    PLEASE   YOU?"  113 

Mendall  was  instantly  on  his  guard.  "It's  just  that 
I've  run  out  of  work,  so  I've  had  time  to  notice."  He 
bent  and  kissed  her.  "I  am  going  out  over  the  hills. 
Perhaps  they'll  give  me  an  inspiration.  I'll  be  late — 
don't  you  dare  sit  up  for  me !" 

Then  he  teased  her  a  little,  his  hand  under  her  soft 
chin.  "You  look  tired;  you've  spent  most  of  the  last 
week  in  town,  Madam.  Are  you  investing  in  clothes 
like  the  Senorita,  or  have  you  an  admirer  over  there?" 

"Carl !"  she  protested,  blushing.  She  was  not  ready 
to  tell  him  why  she  was  going  every  day  to  Laclasse. 

"If  he  shows  his  face  here,  I  warn  you  I'll  shoot 
him !"  Mendall  declared  gaily,  as  he  went  off. 

Mrs.  Mendall  sighed.  She  knew  what  troubled  him : 
he  had  finished  one  piece  of  work  and  was  restlessly 
looking  about  for  another.  He  was  always  miserable 
when  not  painting.  .  .  .  And  Mrs.  Bagsby  was 
away.  Mrs.  Mendall  had  gathered  from  what  she  had 
overheard  Mrs.  Bagsby  say  to  Clare  at  Burroughs 
Nast's,  that  Mrs.  Bagsby  was  going  for  a  week's  motor 
trip. 

But  she  did  not  want  to  think  of  Mrs.  Bagsby.  She 
took  her  husband's  advice  and  went  to  bed. 


XIX 

A  CATACLYSM 

IT  WAS  nearly  midnight  when  Mendall  returned 
to  what  was  apparently  a  sleeping  house.  He  was 
not  sleepy,  so  he  sat  down  in  the  studio  to  read. 

He  soon  discovered  that  he  was  not  the  only  person 
awake  and  stirring;  Marie  was  moving  above  him, 
walking  around  and  around  her  room.  MacAllister 
had  probably  brought  her  back  only  a  short  time  before 
he  himself  had  returned. 

Mendall  dropped  his  book  and  listened,  his  thoughts 
circling  about  her,  as  had  become  habitual  with  him. 
He  had  told  his  wife  that  he  understood  Marie.  The 
statement  was  somewhat  far-fetched,  for  he  was  con- 
vinced of  only  three  things :  that  Marie  was  not  what 
she  appeared  to  be;  that  she  had  designs  against  Mac- 
Allister's  money;  and  that  she  carried  about  with  her 
an  uneasy  conscience.    The  rest  was  all  surmise. 

The  thing  that  Mendall  puzzled  over,  and  that  he 
was  considering  now,  was  Marie's  past.  He  was  very 
certain  that  she  was  an  adventuress,  and  that  she  had 
mixed  blood  of  some  sort  in  her.  Where  had  she 
originated?  What  had  she  been?  And  by  just\vhat 
means  was  she  inveigling  MacAllister?    MacAllister's 

114 


A    CATACLYSM  115 

morals  were  doubtless  those  of  the  average  man;  cer- 
tainly he  had  too  much  sense  to  bring  into  a  reputable 
household  a  woman  of  whom  he  had  suspicions,  or 
upon  whom  he  had  designs.  But  he  was  no  more 
astute  in  certain  respects  than  many  another  financier 
who  becomes  putty  in  a  clever  woman's  hands.  It  was 
quite  apparent  that  he  thought  Marie  what  she  repre- 
sented herself  to  be — a  relation  of  his,  possibly  his 
daughter — if  it  were  true,  as  Margaret  had  said,  that 
MacAllister  had  thrown  his  wife  and  child  aside. 

As  he  sat  with  head  tipped  back  against  his  easy 
chair,  Mendall  constructed  half  a  dozen  pasts  for 
Marie,  and  as  many  possible  futures.  The  conviction 
that  Marie  was  an  impostor  did  not  shock  him  in  the 
least.  He  simply  had  an  intense  desire  to  study  her, 
and  at  shorter  range. 

The  movements  above  him  ceased,  finally,  and  for 
a  time  there  was  silence — until,  from  some  slight 
sounds  in  the  direction  of  the  window  above,  Mendall 
judged  that  Marie  was  keeping  vigil  just  as  he  was; 
seated  at  the  window,  probably,  and  looking  out  at  the 
night.  Mendall's  windows  were  widely  open  also,  and 
putting  out  all  but  the  shaded  light  on  the  table,  he  also 
looked  out  at  the  trees  which  were  touched  by  a  meager 
moon.  The  elm  at  the  side  of  the  house  stretched  a 
branch  that  in  rough  weather  tapped  on  Marie's  win- 
dow ;  she  sat  in  a  bower.  Mendall  could  see  only  the 
trunk  and  the  lower  branches.  ...  He  sat  on, 
constructing  more  and  more  vague  pasts  and  vaguer 
futures,  with  the  even  vaguer  intention  of  going  to  bed 


116  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

when  he  heard  Marie  move  to  do  so  .  .  .  until 
he  slipped  into  a  fog  that  was  half  a  dream.     .     .     . 

Mendall  was  aroused  by  a  thud  and  a  muffled  roar, 
an  earthquake  shock  that  rocked  the  house  into  a  con- 
fusion of  splintering  glass  and  tottering  objects,  a 
wavering  motion  that  ceased,  as  it  had  begun,  abruptly. 
He  had  not  been  shaken  out  of  his  chair,  only  jolted 
upright,  out  of  vagueness  into  the  consciousness  of 
frantic  screams,  of  footsteps  rushing  down  the  stairs, 
of  Margaret,  in  her  nightdress  and  with  hair  down, 
clinging  to  him. 

"Carl!    What  is  it?"  she  gasped. 

They  stood  in  less  of  wreckage  than  Mendall  had 
imagined.  The  lamp  was  precariously  near  the  edge 
of  the  table,  but  still  burning;  small  objects  lay  scat- 
tered on  the  floor,  and  a  canvas  had  fallen  from  an 
easel. 

"I  don't  know,"  Mendall  said  dazedly.  "I  was 
asleep.     .     .     .     An  earthquake — " 

"The  window  in  our  room  is  broken  into  pieces — 
something  struck  it — " 

Mendall  was  cool  as  soon  as  he  recovered  from  the 
daze  of  sleep.  "But  you're  not  hurt,  Margaret. 
.  .  .  Who's  screaming  up-stairs — Marie?"  He 
made  for  the  door. 

"Don't  go,  Carl !"  Mrs.  Mendall  implored.  "It  may 
come  again!" 

Mendall  had  never  experienced  an  earthquake  or  he 
might  have  had  doubts  as  to  the  nature  of  the  shak- 
ing they  had  received.    "Oh,  no,  it  won't.    It's  over. 


A   CATACLYSM  117 

It  was  rather  a  severe  shock,  that's  all.  .  .  .  Come 
up  with  me;  she  must  be  mad  with  fright  to  scream 
like  that!" 

It  was  not  Marie  who  was  shrieking;  it  was  the 
negress.  Marie's  door  was  open;  she  was  not  in  her 
room,  and  Mendall  remembered  now  the  rush  of  foot- 
steps on  the  stairs. 

He  had  regained  all  his  faculties,  and  the  irresponsi- 
ble humor  that  was  apt  to  attack  him  at  unexpected 
moments  made  him  laugh  while  he  shook  the  mulatto 
back  to  reason.  Lucy  lay  with  head  covered,  calling 
wildly  upon  the  Lord,  while  her  bare  brown  legs  kicked 
viciously  at  Mendall,  whom  she  took  to  be  the  devil  try- 
ing to  lay  hold  on  her. 

Mendall  had  to  exert  force  before  he  could  roll  her 
over  on  her  back.  "Stop  your  noise !"  he  commanded, 
when  he  had  succeeded  in  making  her  open  her  eyes. 
"If  you  yell  like  that,  the  devil's  sure  to  get  you,  you 
idiot!" 

"O  Lord !    De  jedgment  day  am  come !" 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  lost  her  fright.  "It's  only  an 
earthquake,  Lucy,"  she  soothed.    "It's  all  over." 

"Make  her  put  on  some  clothes,  Margaret,  and  come 
down,"  Mendall  advised.  "She'll  start  in  again  if  she's 
left  alone.  I'm  going  to  find  out  what's  become  of 
Marie." 

He  guessed  where  she  was,  and  that  she  was  prob- 
ably the  only  person  in  the  house  who  was  awake  when 
the  shock  came.  He  found  her  outside.  She  had  gone 
out  into  the  grove,  and  stood  looking  toward  Laclasse. 


118  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"It's  only  an  earthquake,  Sefiorita,"  he  said  when  he 
reached  her.  "Come  back  to  the  house.  There's  no 
danger." 

She  turned  to  him  a  face  that,  even  in  the  dimness, 
looked  ghastly.  "It  is  no  earthquake,  Senor — it  is  the 
plant." 

"No!"  Then  as  the  certainty  took  hold  on  him: 
"My  word !  I  believe  you're  right !  An  explosion,  of 
course !" 

Marie  turned  away.  "They  have  worked  more 
quickly  than  I  thought,"  she  said  desperately.  "Oh, 
if  only  no  one  is  killed — " 

The  remark  struck  Mendall  as  curious.  "You  mean 
the  plant's  been  blown  up?"  he  demanded. 

"I  do  not  know — how  should  I  know  ?  I  only  guess, 
as  you  do,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "But  whoever  was 
there  would  be — killed — "  She  caught  her  breath  on 
the  last  word. 

Her  manner  startled  him.  "I  believe  I'll  go  and  see 
what  has  happened!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  not  more 
than  half  a  mile  if  I  take  the  short  cut.  We  can't  even 
see  from  here  whether  there's  a  fire." 

Marie  turned  to  him  eagerly.  "Ah,  Senor,  will  you 
go !    I  will  go  with  you — then  I  will  know !" 

"Very  well !  But  it's  a  rough  way  up  through  the 
ravines — I  don't  know  whether  you  could  do  it.  Still. 
.  .  .  Come  back  to  the  house  and  we'll  see."  Men- 
dall was  eager  enough  to  have  her  with  him — if  Mar- 
garet could  be  managed. 

But  Mrs.  Mendall  would  not  hear  of  his  going,  even 


A   CATACLYSM  119 

though  Mendall  omitted  to  mention  that  Marie  wanted 
to  go  with  him.  "You  mustn't,  Carl !"  she  said  in  ter- 
ror. "If  there  has  been  one  explosion  there  may  be  an- 
other.   I  should  go  mad  with  fright !" 

Marie  slipped  away  when  she  heard  Mrs.  Mendall's 
decision.  Mendall  caught  up  with  her  just  as  she 
reached  the  door  of  her  room.  When  the  light  had 
shown  him  her  face  he  had  been  struck  by  her  look 
almost  of  horror.     She  was  tense  and  quivering. 

"I  am  going,  just  the  same,  Marie,',  he  said.  "I'll 
persuade  Margaret.  But  you  had  better  not  try  to 
come  with  me — I  know  she  won't  allow  that." 

"Sefior,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you  if  you  will  go 
and  come  back  quickly,"  she  implored. 

"I  told  you,  I'm  going ;  but  why  are  you  so  anxious  ? 
Who  do  you  think  might  be  killed?"  he  demanded,  de- 
termined to  know  the  reason  for  her  urgency. 

"Monsieur  MacAllister  went  there  after  he  left  me, 
Senor.  He  was  there.  I  think  they  have  killed  him," 
and,  turning  abruptly,  she  locked  herself  into  her  room. 


XX 


THOUGH  Mendall  kept  his  promise  to  Marie  and 
went  off  to  the  plant,  it  was  not  he  who  brought 
the  first  news  of  its  destruction  to  her. 

While  the  morning  was  still  hazily  gray,  Marie's 
acute  ears  heard  the  burr  of  an  automobile  as  it  turned 
from  the  boulevard  into  the  grove.  She  was  down  the 
stairs  and  on  the  porch  before  it  drew  up  at  the  steps. 
At  the  first  glance  she  saw  who  drove,  and  the  certainty 
changed  her  from  a  haggard  woman  to  a  softly  smiling 
girl.  When  MacAllister  came  to  her,  her  face  was 
alight. 

"Ah,  it  is  you!"  she  said  with  a  vivid  note  of  joy. 
"I  have  been  in  terrible  anxiety !" 

"That's  why  I  came — as  soon  as  my  brain  cleared 
enough  to  remember  that  ye'd  be  thinking  I  was  buried 
in  that  heap  they've  made  over  there." 

"But  you  escaped — and  without  being  hurt  ?" 

Her  hands  strayed  over  him  anxiously,  for  he  looked 
as  if  he  had  just  dragged  himself  out  of  a  pile  of  de- 
bris. He  was  streaked  and  smudged  with  dirt  and 
caked  to  the  knees  with  mud ;  pale  and  disheveled  and 
with  all  the  marks  of  excitement  upon  him. 

"I  wasn't  there  when  they  did  their  devil's  work,  or 
120 


"WHAT'S   DONE   IS   DONE"  121 

I'd  not  be  here,"  MacAllister  said  grimly.  "Ye're  re- 
sponsible for  my  escape.  I  was  fully  meaning  to  go 
when  I  left  ye  last  night,  but  I  was  thinking  of  ye 
and  not  of  where  I  was  going,  so  I  passed  the  turning 
of  the  plant  before  I  knew.  I  was  minded  to  come 
back ;  as  I  told  ye,  there  were  things  I  wanted  to  see  to 
at  the  office  of  the  plant ;  but  it  was  late,  and  I  decided 
I'd  come  out  in  the  morning.  It  was  just  by  that  little 
chance  I  escaped.  I  was  in  town  when  I  heard  the  ex- 
plosion. .  .  .  There's  nothing  but  a  hole  in  the 
ground — where  the  office  stood,  Marie." 

Marie  caught  her  breath.  She  drew  him  into  the 
little  reception  room,  while  he  talked,  closing  the  door 
on  Lucy's  open-mouthed  interest.  Mrs.  Mendall  was 
also  coming  up  from  below ;  they  would  be  surrounded 
by  questions  in  a  moment. 

"And  the  plant  is  destroyed — completely  gone?"  she 
asked  quickly. 

"The  main  building's  blown  into  pieces  and  my  ma- 
chinery's scattered  in  bits  all  over  the  country.  The 
other  buildings  are  shattered  so  they're  no  account. 
.  .  .  It's  a  nasty  mess  they've  made,  damn  thern!" 
He  ended  in  a  suppressed  fury  that  flushed  him. 

"But  no  one  was  killed?" 

MacAllister  hesitated;  he  did  not  like  to  tell  her. 
"One  of  the  night  watchmen,  Marie.  We've  found 
enough  to  identify  him.  Another's  slightly  injured, 
and  a  third  we've  found  no  trace  of  yet.  Perhaps  it's 
he  did  the  mischief." 

Marie  grew  paler.    "Ah,  Monsieur!" 


122  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"I've  no  right  telling  ye  such  things,  but  the  papers 
will  have  it  in  all  its  ugliness  for  ye  to  read.  There 
were  reporters  out  almost  as  soon  as  I  was,  and  now 
the  place  is  thronged.  All  of  Laclasse  will  be  there  by 
noon — looking  on  my  wretched  property. "  It  was 
plain  that  there  was  hurt  pride  as  well  as  anger  work- 
ing in  him. 

"But  you  will  not  go  on  with  it — now  the  plant  is 
gone?"  she  asked  timidly,  and  yet  with  eagerness. 

"Go  on!"  MacAllister  answered,  his  eyes  aflame. 
"Yes,  I'll  go  on!  Before  night  comes  I'll  have  a  force 
clearing  a  place  for  new  buildings.  I'll  give  Mr.  Kraup 
and  his  tribe  a  surprise !"  He  swore  profoundly,  and 
asked  no  pardon  for  it :  "By ,  I'll  go  straight  on !" 

Marie  was  not  too  frightened  by  his  violence  to 
plead.  She  came  close  and  put  her  hand  on  the 
clenched  fist  he  had  brought  down  on  the  table.  She 
stroked  it,  her  face  lifted  to  his.  "Ah,  but  see  what 
you  have  escaped!  It  will  only  bring  more  trouble, 
Monsieur." 

MacAllister  looked  down  on  her,  frowning  heavily. 
"Ye're  of  my  blood  and  would  be  intimidated  by  plain 
lawlessness !  What's  come  over  ye  ?  It's  not  my  blood 
that's  speaking  in  ye  now.  I've  seen  nothing  but  cour- 
age in  ye  so  far,  and  been  proud  of  it !" 

Her  lips  quivered  at  his  biting  reproof.  She  looked 
down.  "I  do  not  wish  trouble  to  come  to  you — "  she 
said  with  difficulty. 

MacAllister  softened  on  the  instant.  He  drew  her 
to  him.    "I'm  just  a  plain  brute !"  he  said  against  her 


"WHAT'S   DONE   IS   DONE"  123 

cheek.  "I'm  clean  beside  myself  this  morning!  Ye' re 
a  tender-hearted  girl — just  as  I'd  have  ye  be.  God 
knows  ye  brought  me  a  blessing  when  ye  brought  yer- 
self  to  me." 

Then  at  the  look  she  gave  him,  his  rough  hand 
turned  her  lips  to  his,  and  he  kissed  her,  a  long  pressure 
to  which  she  responded,  hesitatingly  at  first,  then  with 
intensity.  Her  arms  lifted  to  his  neck  and  clasped  him, 
as  tightly  as  he  held  her. 

The  warmth  of  her  response  took  MacAllister's 
breath.  "So  ye  have  it  in  ye  to  love  me  like  that — "  he 
said  unsteadily.  "I'm  glad  ye  belong  to  me,  and  I 
mean  to  do  right  by  ye.  I'm  glad  ye  had  the  courage 
to  come  to  me,  with  the  confidence  of  a  child  coming  to 
its  father." 

"You  have  been  a  father  to  me,  ever  since  I  came," 
Marie  said  in  a  smothered  way. 

"No,  I've  not.  I've  not  known  exactly  what  to  make 
of  ourselves  these  three  weeks.  I'll  confess,  I  put  ye 
out  here,  away  from  people,  that  I  might  study  ye  a 
bit.  It's  the  cautious  Scot  in  me  suggested  that.  It's 
been  like  making  acquaintance  with  a  stranger  to  whom 
one  feels  drawn.  I  told  ye  last  night  of  the  trouble 
that  came  to  me  when  I  was  little  more  than  a  boy  and 
before  ye  were  born,  and  of  the  hurt  and  regret  that's 
been  eating  into  me  all  these  years.  I  want  to  do  for 
ye.  I  needed  just  what  ye've  brought  me.  .  .  . 
I  was  thinking  last  night  of  ways  and  means.  There's 
no  one  knows  that  I  had  a  wife  and  child.  There's 
only  one  person  besides  yerself  to  whom  I've  ever  told 


124  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

all  I  told  ye  last  night.  I'm  no  talker,  and  neither  are 
ye;  ye're  a  bit  like  me  in  that.  We'll  give  no  histories 
to  the  gossips,  either  yours  or  mine.  Laclasse  will 
learn  ye're  my  kinswoman,  and  that's  enough.  I  can 
do  for  my  kinswoman  as  I  see  fit — I  can  adopt  her  if 
I  wish.  I've  had  experience  in  the  harm  gossip  can 
do  a  woman;  I've  suffered  from  the  wagging  tongues 
in  Laclasse,  and  so  has  the  woman  of  whom  I  think  a 
deal.  The  fewer  explanations  we  make  the  better. 
.     .     .     Ye'll  help  me  in  what  I  intend  to  do,  Marie?" 

"I  will  do  whatever  you  say — I  am  grateful  that  you 
love  me."    She  was  dully  flushed. 

And  MacAllister  had  talked  himself  back  only  to  an 
appearance  of  calmness.  His  voice  betrayed  how  thor- 
oughly he  was  stirred.  "I  want  ye  just  to  stay  quietly 
here  and  get  back  yer  strength,"  he  continued.  "Busy 
yerself  with  yer  drawing,  or  whatever  ye  like,  until 
I'm  free  of  all  this  excitement  and  trouble  the  plant's 
brought  on  me.  Then  we'll  see.  I'll  come  often,  and 
we'll  learn  to  know  each  other  better.  We'll  be  real 
companions.  Just  ye  continue  to  call  me  'Monsieur' ;  I 
like  it.  I'm  glad  there's  affection  between  us;  it's  a 
real  joy." 

He  was  flushed  and  abrupt  in  his  speech,  evidently 
deeply  moved.  He  ended  with  an  attempt  at  lightness, 
patting  her  cheek  before  he  turned  to  go.  "I  came  just 
to  relieve  yer  mind,  but  now  I  must  be  going.  I'll  re- 
turn at  the  first  moment,  so  just  ye  take  good  care  of 
yerself  till  I  do,  little  daughter." 

And  Marie  smiled  also,   though  she  still  looked 


"WHAT'S   DONE   IS   DONE"  125 

flushed.  But  when  his  hand  was  on  the  knob,  his  go- 
ing an  actuality,  her  flush  deepened  into  a  look  of  dis- 
tress, and,  suddenly,  she  gathered  decision.  "Mon- 
sieur, you  intend  now  to  find  who  destroyed  your 
plant  r 

MacAllister  turned  quickly.  "If  it  takes  every  de- 
tective in  the  country !" 

"You  think  it  has  been  a  German  plot  ?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it,  Marie.  I  thought  I'd  taken 
every  precaution,  but  they've  got  the  better  of  me.  I 
shut  out  the  Austrians,  and  they've  been  seething.  A 
clever  head  and  a  little  money  is  what  has  done  the 
work.  It  was  a  bomb  destroyed  the  main  building, 
that's  sure,  and  the  powder  that  was  about  did  the  rest. 
There's  been  no  time  yet  to  sift  evidence,  but  I'm  going 
to  the  bottom  of  the  thing."  He  ended  grimly:  "I'd 
give  a  good  deal  to  get  Andrew  Kraup  on  the  witness- 
stand." 

Marie  studied  him  through  narrowed  eyes.  She 
looked  utterly  unlike  the  anxious  girl  who  had  pleaded 
with  him,  or  the  flushed  woman  who  had  kissed  him. 
"He  may  know  something,  Monsieur,  but  I  think  you 
have  had  an  enemy  close  to  your  elbow  who  could  tell* 
you  far  more  than  he." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Your  chauffeur,  Monsieur." 

"Townley!  Townley's  an  Englishman.  I  know 
where  he  stands.    He's  the  best  servant  I've  ever  had." 

"He  is  no  Englishman,  Monsieur.  He  is  deceiving 
you." 


126  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

"Tell  me  your  reasons?"  MacAllister  asked  gravely. 

"I  have  only  suspicions,  nevertheless  I  am  certain. 
The  night  I  came  to  your  door  he  opened  to  me.  I 
have  seen  many  Italians ;  I  was  so  instinctively  certain 
he  was  an  Italian  that  I  spoke  to  him  in  Italian. 
He  was  quick,  he  answered  me  in  English,  but  for  one 
instant  I  saw  his  expression.  He  understood  perfectly, 
and  pretended  he  did  not.  He  is  Italian ;  he  is  in  dis- 
guise. And  the  times  I  have  seen  him  since,  I  have 
studied  him ;  he  is  deceiving  you." 

"He  told  me  he  didn't  know  a  word  of  Italian. 
.  .  .  But  even  if  he  is  Italian,  he  would  have  no  ob- 
ject— I've  favored  the  Italians  at  my  plant." 

"It  is  the  fact  that  he  is  deceiving  you  that  is  sus- 
picious. Ah,  Monsieur,  it  is  those  who  are  renegade 
to  their  country,  who  consider  themselves  of  no  coun- 
try, that  do  the  work  of  spies.  They  speak  every  lan- 
guage, and  assume  every  disguise.  They  see  their  ad- 
vantage in  turmoil.  They  would  be  quite  willing  to 
work  for  these  Austrians  who  are  angry — for  any  one 
who  will  pay  them.  They  were  all  about  us  in  Bel- 
gium. One  went  in  fear  and  hatred  of  them.  One 
felt  them  through  one's  skin  and  shivered.  Ugh!  I 
loathe  them  worse  than  a  snake!"  She  showed  her 
teeth  in  savage  disgust,  a  look  that  made  her  tigerish. 

MacAllister  stared  at  her,  astonished  not  only  by 
what  she  had  said,  but  also  by  her  expression.  She 
looked  like  a  jungle  thing;  fear  and  hatred  trans- 
formed her. 

"It  would  be  astounding  if  you  were  right;  but  I 


"WHAT'S    DONE    IS    DONE"  127 

can't  think  it.  Yer  fearful  experience  has  worn  upon 
yer  nerves,  Marie.  .  .  .  It's  Andrew  Kraup  and 
German  money  that's  at  the  bottom  of  last  night's 
work.    I  know  it.    He  hates  both  me  and  my  plant." 

"He  may  be.  The  Germans  are  in  deadly  earnest, 
Monsieur.  Every  missile  you  manufacture  means  a 
bit  of  the  fighting  force  taken  from  them;  they  look 
at  it  in  that  way,  so  it  may  be.  But,  whoever  the  plot- 
ters, the  first  thing  they  would  do  would  be  to  put  a 
spy  upon  your  every  movement;  your  thoughts,  if  they 
could." 

MacAllister  was  impressed  in  spite  of  himself.  "Ye 
may  be  right,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "But  it  was  not 
Townley  did  last  night's  work.  That  was  done  by 
some  one  who  knew  his  way  about  the  plant." 

"That  would  not  be  his  part.  He  is  simply  set  to 
watch  upon  you." 

"The  man's  got  nerve,  then!  'Twas  at  my  tele- 
phone call  he  brought  out  the  chief  of  police." 

"He  has  not  gone,  then?"  Marie  said  quickly.  "He 
is  kept  to  watch  you  still." 

"He'll  not  have  the  satisfaction  long!"  MacAllister 
returned  grimly.  He  was  thinking  of  the  many  bits 
of  information  that  even  his  caution  had  let  slip  in 
Townley's  presence. 

"Ah,  no,  Monsieur!  Do  you  not  see  that  to  send 
him  away,  or  to  show  in  any  way  that  you  suspect  him, 
would  be  the  unwisest  thing?  Do  you  not  see  what  an 
advantage  it  gives  you  to  keep  him,  and  quite  unsus- 
picious that  you  suspect  ?    He  has  friends ;  he  receives 


128  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

letters;  you  may  have  in  him  a  means  of  discovering 
the  person  who  wrecked  your  plant."  She  was  flushed 
and  eager. 

MacAllister  looked  at  her  admiringly.  "To  think 
that  ye've  got  so  clever  a  woman's  head  on  ye!  I'll 
do  the  very  thing  ye  suggest.  I'll  set  the  keenest  de- 
tective I  can  get  upon  Townley.  It  may  lead  us  to 
Kraup  in  the  end." 

Though  certain  of  his  enemy,  MacAllister  had  had 
no  very  clear  idea  of  how  to  reach  him.  That  he  was 
triumphed  over  had  hurt  him  even  more  than  the  loss 
of  his  plant.  He  looked  both  pleased  and  excited.  He 
put  his  hands  on  Marie's  shoulders.  "I'm  grateful  to 
ye,  Marie.  Ye're  as  sweet  as  a  child,  and  yet  ye  have 
a  woman's  brain." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  color  ebbing.  "If  you 
keep  a  guard  near  you,  he  will  help  to  protect  you," 
she  said  earnestly.  "I  beg  you  to  do  it,  Monsieur.  I 
think  you  do  not  realize  your  danger.  See  how  nearly 
you  have  escaped  death.  And  if  you  go  on  with 
your  plant — "  She  began  to  play  with  the  lapels  of 
his  coat  while  the  color  left  her  face  entirely.  "Ah, 
Monsieur,  if  you  have  confidence  in  my  judgment, 
please  listen  to  me  without  being  angry.  I  am  terri- 
fied, and  because  of  the  things  I  have  seen — men  torn 
to  pieces  by  shell,  and  women  weeping  over  their  chil- 
dren. Why  will  men  permit  such  things  ?  Is  there  no 
other  way  but  to  kill  ?  It  is  like  a  great  cemetery  over 
there — full  of  groans.  Last  night  when  I  walked 
about  wringing  my  hands,  thinking  I  must  weep  like 


"WHAT'S   DONE   IS   DONE"  129 

those  women,  I  cursed  war.  This  great  country  has 
seemed  so  peaceful,  and  yet  here  is  the  strife  brought 
to  your  very  door.  .  .  .  Monsieur,  build  up  your 
works  again,  if  you  wish,  and  make  again  the  iron 
things  that  are  useful — they  brought  you  much  money 
— but  the  fearful  things  that  kill — please  do  not  make 
them!  I  fear  so  greatly  that  harm  will  come  to  you 
because  of  it." 

Mac  Alii  ster  flushed  darkly.  He  was  as  completely 
surprised  by  her  return  to  pleading  as  he  had  been  by 
her  keenness.  But  he  did  not  reprove  her  as  he  had 
a  few  moments  before.  Since  then  she  had  stirred 
something  in  him  that  was  compelling.  She  was  pale 
and  quivering  and  utterly  in  earnest;  lovely  in  her 
pallor  and  the  way  in  which  she  clung  to  him. 

He  caught  her  to  him.  "Ye're  a  deal  better  pleader 
than  Bagsby,  and  just  because  ye  are  a  woman!  I 
didn't  know  ye  were  so  frightened  about  me,  dear?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur.  ...  I  do  not  deserve  that  you 
should  think  well  of  me — but  you  are  all  I  have — " 

"Ye're  just  sweetness  itself!"  MacAllister  said 
thickly.  "If  I'd  only  had  ye  by  me  these  last  fifteen 
years — "  and  he  kissed  her,  her  cheek  and  her  hair, 
holding  her  the  more  closely  because  of  the  shyness 
that  kept  her  lips  turned  from  him.  For  though  her 
hand  pressed  his  cheek,  there  was  an  air  of  withdrawal 
about  her,  as  if  she  was  fearful  both  of  her  own  temer- 
ity and  the  intensity  of  feeling  she  had  aroused. 

But  he  found  her  lips  and  kissed  them.  "Ye  belong 
to  me — and  no  one  else    .    .    .    and  there's   a   fu- 


130  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

ture — "  he  said,  almost  incoherently.  Then  he  put 
her  aside  with  reluctant  decision.  "One  thing  I  know : 
there  are  things  ye  know  nothing  of  shall  go  by  the 
board — from  this  day  on.  It's  none  but  clean  hands 
should  touch  ye." 

He  caught  up  his  hat,  but  at  the  door  he  turned. 
"I'll  think  over  all  ye've  said.  If  I'm  guided  by  ye, 
it's  the  first  time  I've  let  sentiment  get  in  the  way  of 
business;  it's  clean  against  my  principles.'*  And  with 
that  he  was  gone. 

Marie  went  up  to  her  room  and,  as  usual,  locked 
herself  in.  The  newly  risen  sun  tipped  with  glistening 
light  the  leaves  below  her  window-ledge.  Over  the 
tree-tops  she  could  see  the  golden  bend  of  the  Mis- 
souri, the  steady,  ceaseless,  yellow  flow  that  man's 
hand  could  not  stay.  She  looked  at  the  symbols  of  the 
inevitable,  still  tense?held  by  emotion.  "What  is  done, 
is  done,"  she  said,  as  if  she  spoke  to  the  sun  or  the 
river. 

She  looked  about  her  then,  at  the  white  purity  of 
her  room,  and,  suddenly,  some  sustaining  force  in  her 
broke.  She  went  to  her  bed  and  threw  herself  down, 
burying  her  face  in  her  arms.  From  the  intensity  of 
her  distress  her  whispers  sounded  like  a  prayer :  "Oh, 
Maria  de  la  Guarda — Maria  de  la  Guarda — " 

And,  yet,  it  was  the  usual  immobile  and  unobtrusive 
girl  who  showed  herself  to  the  Mendalls  later  on. 


XXI 


A  WIFE  AT  FAULT 


A  FEW  days  later,  just  as  they  were  leaving  the 
.  breakfast  table,  Marie  announced  that  she  was 
ready  to  begin  her  drawing  lessons.  She  addressed 
herself  to  Mrs.  Mendall,  not  her  husband :  "I  am  ready 
now,  Madame,  to  draw." 

Mrs.  Mendall  hesitated.  She  wanted  to  go  into 
Laclasse  that  morning,  she  must  go,  yet  she  was  afraid 
to  leave  Marie  to  Mendall's  uncertain  temper.  He 
abominated  stupidity;  he  would  become  sarcastically 
polite,  and  with  Marie  the  result  might  be  disastrous. 

"Have  you  the  morning,  Carl?"  she  asked,  hoping 
that  his  reluctance  would  invent  an  excuse. 

Mendall  had  long  ago  decided  that  he  would  show 
no  enthusiasm  over  these  lessons.  Besides,  Marie  had 
shown  no  appreciation  of  his  exertions  in  her  behalf 
on  the  night  of  the  explosion.  She  had  promptly  re- 
turned to  her  usual  antagonistic  attitude.  "Why — I 
suppose  I  can  manage  it,"  he  said,  and  went  out,  leav- 
ing his  wife  to  follow  with  Marie. 

This  was  not  an  auspicious  beginning,  but  Mrs. 
Mendall  made  the  best  of  it.  She  did  not  believe  that 
Marie  could  draw.  She  felt  certain  that  her  husband's 
patience  would  be  tried  to  the  utmost. 

131 


132  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

Mrs.  Mendall  granted  that  Marie  had  intelligence  of 
a  kind,  a  certain  distrust  of  those  about  her  that 
guarded  her  from  encroachment,  the  instinct  of  with- 
drawal and  the  capacity,  inherent  in  most  animals,  to 
strike  when  molested.  But  she  thought  Marie  both 
senselessly  lavish  and  lazy,  two  qualities  her  New  Eng- 
land sense  detested.  The  girl  sunned  herself  like  a 
savage,  and  adorned  herself  like  one.  Mrs.  Mendall 
had  an  unalterable  contempt  for  the  civilized  woman 
who  retains  the  attributes  of  the  savage;  she  could  not 
conceive  of  Marie's  ever  creating  anything. 

She  ushered  Marie  into  the  studio  pleasantly,  how- 
ever, and  while  Mendall  took  charge  of  his  pupil, 
busied  herself  in  dusting  his  always  disordered  desk, 
ready  to  intervene  if  necessary. 

Save  for  a  single  glance,  Marie  paid  no  attention  to 
her  surroundings.  Mendall  asked  her  no  questions; 
he  simply  placed  her,  then  set  her  a  difficult  task,  and 
stood  so  quietly  at  her  side  that  his  sudden  exclama- 
tion, when  it  came,  startled  Mrs.  Mendall. 

"Who  taught  you  to  draw  like  that?" 

Marie  glanced  up  at  him.  Mrs.  Mendall  caught  the 
retaliatory  glint  in  her  eyes.  "An  excellent  instructor, 
Sefior." 

Mendall  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  her. 
"Have  you  ever  painted  anything?"  he  asked  then. 

"Si,  Senor."  She  slurred  the  Spanish  words  almost 
to  a  hiss. 

"Water  colors?" 

"Si? 


A   WIFE   AT   FAULT  133 

"Have  you  anything  to  show  me?" 

"Some  sketches — they  are  much  soiled  and  torn." 

"Suppose  you  get  them." 

Marie  left  the  room,  and  Mendall  watched  her  go, 
intently  observant  of  her  every  motion.  Her  gown, 
her  purchase  at  Burroughs  Nast's,  swathed  her  so 
closely  that  it  accentuated  her  naturally  undulating 
walk.  She  was  deliberate,  well-poised,  feline  in  light- 
ness of  tread. 

Marie  had  appeared  at  breakfast  in  the  gown,  and 
Mrs.  Mendall  had  been  resignedly  thankful  that  Marie, 
if  she  considered  the  garment  a  negligee,  had  had  suf- 
ficient regard  for  appearances  to  wrap  herself  in  a 
chiffon  scarf.  The  scarf  was  red,  of  course.  It  cov- 
ered her  arms  and  shoulders,  concealing  to  some  ex- 
tent her  sinuosity.  The  gown  was  a  ridiculous  thing 
to  wear  in  the  morning;  it  had  cost  seventy  dollars, 
and  Marie  wore  it  with  as  little  self -consciousness  as 
a  washerwoman  would  her  calico  wrapper ! 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  noticed  that  at  the  breakfast  table 
her  husband  had  given  Marie's  attire  a  cold  scrutiny; 
no  wonder  he  looked  after  her  now  with  an  expression 
of  chill  distaste.  It  was  a  blessing  the  girl  could  draw. 
Ever  since  their  first  encounter,  Mrs.  Mendall  had 
feared  that,  if  angered,  Carl  would  ask  Marie — more 
politely  than  Lucy,  perhaps,  yet  pointedly  enough — 
how  she  came  by  her  "yellow  face."  He  was  capable 
of  cruelty  when  angry. 

"I  am  glad  she  is  not  going  to  be  a  dead  weight, 
Carl,"  she  said,  with  a  note  of  relief. 


134  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

Mendall  started  and  turned.    "No — she'll  do." 

"Does  she  really  draw  well  ?" 

"Yes.    She  has  the  technique." 

"I  want  to  go  into  town  this  morning,  will  you  two 
really  get  along  without  friction  if  I  leave  you  to- 
gether?" she  asked  anxiously. 

Mendall's  exclamation  was  hardly  a  laugh.  "Mar- 
garet !  .  .  .  No,  at  the  slightest  provocation  I'll  box 
her  ears,  or  shake  her!  .  .  .  You've  precious  little 
confidence  in  my  powers  of  self-control.  Don't  you 
know  I'm  always  polite  to  my  pupils — execrably  so, 
if  they  can't  draw?  But  Marie  knows  how  to  handle 
a  pencil."  He  bent  and  kissed  her,  flushing  as  he  did 
so.  "Fretter!"  Mendall  was  not  as  a  general  thing 
given  to  deceit,  but  he  knew  his  wife  well  enough  to 
predict  that  Marie  would  not  be  allowed  in  his  studio 
if  she  suspected  even  a  tithe  of  the  interest  he  took  in 
MacAllister's  ward. 

Mrs.  Mendall  held  his  cheek  to  hers.  "I  am  relieved, 
I  assure  you.  I  have  been  worrying  about  the  long 
summer  with  that  queer  creature  here  in  the  house, 
and  her  father  insisting  upon  drawing  lessons.  You 
would  be  bored  beyond  endurance." 

"She'll  not  bore  me,  dear.  ...  Go  on,  and  don't 
think  about  us.     She's  safe  enough  from  my  wrath." 

"I'll  be  back  for  lunch,"  Mrs.  Mendall  promised, 
from  the  door. 


XXII 


MENDALL  GAINS  A  MODEL 


MENDALL  was  still  flushed  when  Marie  re- 
turned. She  offered  the  sketches  indifferently. 
"I  have  but  three,  Senor." 

"Sit  down  and  show  them  to  me." 

Mendall  helped  her  straighten  out  the  sketches ;  they 
had  been  tightly  rolled,  and  were,  as  she  had  said, 
creased  and  soiled.  Mendall  took  them  for  Mexican 
street  scenes.  They  were  good  work,  done  with  a  full 
brush  and  expressive  of  directness  and  verve. 

"You  must  have  done  these  in  Mexico,"  he  re- 
marked. 

Her  lip  curled.  "You  are  amusingly  skeptical, 
Senor.  I  told  you  the  first  time  I  saw  you  that  I  knew 
almost  nothing  of  Mexico.    These  are  of  Spain." 

"I  had  forgotten,"  he  apologized.  It  was  plain 
enough  that  she  realized  his  interest  and  curiosity  and 
resented  them. 

She  continued.  "You  have  been  in  Mexico — I  in 
Spain.  I  am  told  that  in  parts  Mexico  is  very  like 
Spain." 

Then  with  elbow  on  her  crossed  knees,  and  hand 
beneath  her  chin,  a  posture  that  lifted  her  face  to  his 

135 


136  THE   TIGER'S    COAT. 

downward  look,  she  began  the  soft  flow  of  words  that 
unfolded  her  surprise :  she  had  visited  every  gallery  of 
note  in  Europe;  the  names  of  the  old  masters  slid 
easily  from  her  tongue;  she  spoke  of  famous  paint- 
ings as  one  would  of  intimate  friends;  she  knew  Paris 
and  Rome  far  better  than  he  did.  Without  any  direct 
statement  she  showed  that  she  was  accustomed  to  lux- 
ury, matured  by  travel — an  experienced  woman,  was 
Mendall's  mental  comment.  .  .  .  And  she  could 
talk!  Deliberately  in  English,  vividly  in  French,  softly 
and  sibilantly  in  Spanish. 

Mendall  understood:  it  was,  in  part,  an  attempted 
vindication  of  the  dumb  creature  she  had  appeared; 
in  part,  a  sly  sop  to  his  curiosity,  a  defiance  of  his 
surmises.    She  concluded  with  a  direct  challenge : 

"I  have  noticed  these  paintings  of  yours,  Sefior — the 
primitive  interests  you.  It  interests  me  also.  I  have 
pondered  the  sayings:  'One  drop  of  black  blood  is 
enough  to  muddy  an  ocean/  and  'Once  an  Indian,  al- 
ways an  Indian/  When  sitting  in  the  cafes  in  Paris 
I  used  sometimes  to  wonder:  'If  this  place  should  sud- 
denly be  transformed  into  a  Mexican  cook-house, 
would  an  educated  but  starving  half-breed  necessarily 
drop  to  her  haunches  to  eat  tortillas,  while  her  equally 
hungry  sister  of  pure  white  blood  looked  around  for 
a  chair?'  Would  they  not  be  likely  to  squat  there  to- 
gether, Sefior? — the  ancestors  of  both  were  in  their 
time  savages.  Are  not  such  reprehensible  ancestral 
habits  inherent  in  us  all  ?  .  .  .  Being  of  clean  blood 
myself,  I  regarded  the  matter  coolly.    In  fact  the  ques- 


MENDALL   GAINS   A   MODEL         137 

tion  is  still  an  open  one  in  my  mind."  The  yellow 
smile  was  deep  in  her  eyes  when  she  concluded,  vying 
with  the  irony  that  lifted  her  lip. 

Mendall  was  astounded  by  her  acuteness,  and  by 
her  audacity.  She  was  laughing  at  his  suspicions, 
holding  them  up  to  ridicule,  playing  with  them.  He 
was  also  panic-stricken.  If  angered  by  his  secret  sur- 
mises, she  could  revenge  herself  in  disastrous  fashion; 
she  might  utterly  refuse  to  pose  for  him. 

His  fright  made  him  cool.  "Nationality  interests 
me  merely  as  an  artist,  Senorita.  Personally  all  na- 
tionalities are  much  the  same  to  me.  .  .  .  In  a  re- 
incarnation why  may  not  the  black  man  or  the  red  enter 
into  an  Anglo-Saxon — or  vice  versa?  In  the  face  of 
infinite  progression,  race  distinctions  appear  puerile." 

She  considered  his  speech  intently  for  a  moment, 
then  dismissed  it.  "Very  clever  theories!"  she  said 
ironically.  Then  she  pointed  to  her  sketches.  "Senor, 
will  I  make  a  great  painter?" 

"No.  You've  gone  as  far  as  you  ever  will.  I  can 
teach  you  very  little."  His  answer  was  incisive ;  Carl 
Mendall  was  always  honest  where  art  was  concerned. 

"I  know  quite  well  I  will  not — I  am  glad  you  tell 
the  truth." 

Marie  rose,  and  going  from  one  to  another  of  Men- 
dall's  paintings,  studied  them  thoughtfully.  Before 
MacAllister  had  taken  away  the  paintings  in  the  living- 
room  she  had  often,  when  not  observed,  looked  at 
them.  The  paintings  MacAllister  had  bought  were 
most  of  them  Mendall's  earlier  work.     Mendall  had 


138  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

progressed ;  even  a  merely  instinctive  critic  would  real- 
ize that  through  various  phases  Carl  Mendall  had  been 
groping  his  way  to  truest  self-expression — a  really 
compelling  delineation  of  the  nude.    Marie  realized  it. 

She  stood  some  time  before  the  Tehuana.  She  made 
no  comment,  however;  she  passed  on  to  the  naked  In- 
dian boy  cuddling  the  snake  on  his  warm  knee,  one 
of  the  best  things  Mendall  had  done — and  on  to  Mrs. 
Bagsby's  portrait.  For  it  Marie  had  only  a  glance; 
she  spent  a  longer  time  before  Clare  Bagsby's  plain- 
featured  likeness.  Then  to  Mendall's  consternation  she 
came  upon  the  last  thing  he  had  done.  He  was  aghast 
at  the  carelessness  that  had  not  locked  it  up.  It  was 
still  on  the  easel,  but  back-turned  to  the  room. 

With  a  quick  movement  Marie  turned  it  about,  and 
his  theft  was  discovered.  It  was  a  jungle-pool,  stran- 
gled by  the  giant  vegetable  growth  of  the  tropics,  a 
sink-hole  so  festooned  and  overhung  by  creepers  and 
greened  by  water-moss  that  in  the  perpetual  twilight 
its  black  water  gleamed  apparently  a  mere  threadlike 
stream  in  an  innocent  glade.  In  reality  the  soft  car- 
pet of  moss  was  a  death-net  set  for  the  feet  of  breath- 
ing things,  a  grip  that  fastened  upon  and  sucked  to 
unsounded  depths  of  slime  and  ooze.  The  body  it  had 
gripped  was  only  faintly  outlined,  the  water-moss  had 
crept  over  it,  but  the  face  still  gleamed  duskily  yellow ; 
the  light  ripple  of  water  over  it  gave  a  faint  semblance 
of  life,  as  if  the  wide  eyelids  occasionally  twitched,  and 
the  lips  parted;  as  if  in  her  wet  grave  Marie  stirred. 
For  the  face  was  hers,  hollowed  and  thinned  by  star- 


MEND  ALL   GAINS   A   MODEL         139 

vation,  an  escaped  enganchada,  the  slave  of  the  Isth- 
mus, lost  in  the  jungle.  A  bit  of  tattered  garment, 
badge  of  servility,  clung  to  her  shoulders. 

Marie  looked  long  and  steadfastly  at  the  thing  he 
had  dared  to  do;  the  insult  she  must  feel  he  had  of- 
fered her  white  blood.  Mendall  turned  hot  then  cold 
as  he  watched  her;  she  had  paled  until  she  looked  cu- 
riously ashen,  even  her  full  lips  losing  their  color. 
.  .  .  Would  she  strike  him  before  she  walked  out  of 
his  studio  never  to  enter  it  again?  Or  would  she  go 
cowed?  Mendall  thought  he  knew  her  kind;  he 
waited. 

She  did  neither.  She  began  to  speak  deliberately, 
and  in  English:  "You  have  come  through  striving, 
step  by  step.  It  is  in  you  to  progress.  And  in  follow- 
ing out  your  purpose  you  have  no  fear — it  is  so  with  a 
tremendous  ambition.  A  great  ambition  has  no  scru- 
ples. You  are  unscrupulous.  .  .  .  But  much  should 
be  forgiven  you — as  much  should  be  forgiven  me.  I 
also  have  ambition — "  She  turned  on  him  swiftly, 
coming  so  close  that  she  looked  directly  into  his  con- 
fused eyes,  her  own  grayed  by  emotion,  whether  an- 
ger or  fear  Mendall  could  not  tell.  "Sefior,  you  wish 
to  paint  me.    You  long  to  paint  me  a  great  deal  ?" 

Mendall  paled,  partly  from  astonishment.  "Yes!" 
he  said.  "I've  wanted  it  from  the  first  moment  my 
eyes  lighted  on  you." 

Marie  turned  away.  She  was  savagely  cool  now. 
"Ah,  yes,  I  have  guessed  that,"  she  said,  shrugging. 
"I  have  guessed  many  things.    This  is  a  barren  place 


140  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

for  an  artist.  It  is  ghastly.  He  starves.  He  becomes 
a  little  mad,  because  he  sees  no  escape  from  it.  Ah, 
yes,  I  understand  perfectly." 

It  was  Mendall  who  came  close  now.  "That  is 
exactly  what  it  is — ghastly!"  he  said  passionately. 
"Senorita,  I  intended  you  no  insult  in  that  thing!" 
He  touched  her  hair.  "You  know — it's  the  quality 
of  brain  this  covers  that  counts — in  the  end.  .  .  . 
And  you  know — you  must  know — what  you  mean  to 
an  artist.  You  are  one  of  the  wonders!  .  .  . 
Senorita,  the  summer  is  coming,  my  time  of  freedom ; 
I  can  take  a  long  step  forward  with  your  help — " 
Mendall  stopped  on  the  beseeching  note. 

Marie  stood  with  head  bent,  considering,  and  he 
finally  touched  her  arm.  "Don't  refuse  me !  It  would 
be  like  giving  water  to  the  thirsty!" 

She  looked  at  him,  her  narrow  glance.  "If  I  help 
you,  you  know  it  will  have  to  be  in  secret?" 

"You  mean  your — that  MacAllister  would  object?" 

"I  am  thinking  of  your  wife,  Senor." 

"Margaret  told  me  once  she  would  be  willing  to 
die  if  it  would  make  a  great  artist  of  me,"  he  said 
quickly. 

Marie  smiled.  "She  was  unwise  to  state  her  love 
so  clearly,  but  women  sometimes  say  such  things.  She 
might  be  willing  to  die,  Senor,  if  it  would  help  you  to 
greatness,  but  she  would  endeavor  to  annihilate  any 
other  woman  who  offered  you  assistance." 

Mendall  set  the  consideration  aside  impatiently. 
"Perhaps.     You've  just  said  I    was    unscrupulous. 


MENDALL   GAINS   A   MODEL         141 

Where  my  work's  concerned  I  am.  ...  It  will  be 
easy  enough  to  keep  the  thing  to  ourselves.  Margaret 
never  comes  here  when  I  am  working.  Whose  busi- 
ness is  it  any  way?" 

"It  is  the  business  of  nobody,  of  course/'  Marie 
said  with  sarcasm.  "It  will  be  quite  the  proper  thing 
for  us  to  play  a  part,  appear  to  be  antagonistic — as  in 
the  past.  .  .  .  Senor,  like  most  men,  you  have  a  de- 
sire and  mean  to  gratify  it,  even  if  it  leads  you — you 
do  not  care  to  think  where.  .  .  .  And  I — why  I 
will  pose  for  you  is  my  affair,  alone." 

He  grasped  her  meaning  instantly.  It  lay  in  her 
sleepily  provocative  glance — as  much  as  in  her  words. 
"And  if  I  did  go  mad  over  you,  do  you  think  I  would 
paint  you  any  the  less  well?"  he  demanded  boldly. 
"You  do  not  know  me,  Sefiorita." 

"That  is  a  risk  you  may  as  well  consider,"  she  re- 
torted coolly. 

Mendall  laughed,  even  though  his  flush  deepened. 
"I  accept  the  challenge." 

"Bon!  It  is  understood,  then!"  she  added  lightly. 
"We  work,  not  play." 

She  turned  from  him  with  a  graceful  twist  of  her 
body,  pirouetted  several  times  aimlessly,  then  slowed 
into  a  dancing  step,  unwinding  as  she  did  so  the  filmy 
scarf  that  draped  her  shoulders,  flung  it  aloft,  dropped 
it,  retreated  behind  it,  emerged  from  it,  and  all  in  time 
to  some  subtle  rhythm  spun  in  her  fertile  brain. 

She  appeared  to  have  been  suddenly  captured  by  the 
spirit  of  graceful  movement.     Mendall  watched  her 


142  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

in  surprise  and  delight.  She  bent,  circled,  lifted  and 
dropped  as  lightly  as  blown  thistledown,  or  the  gossa- 
mer thing  she  played  with,  which  she  lost  and  recap- 
tured, flung  wide  and  gathered  close,  the  clinging 
mesh  of  her  russet  gown  revealing  the  play  of  every 
muscle,  every  curve,  every  line,  the  light  swell  of  her 
breasts,  her  clean  length  of  limb — and  she  moved 
throughout  with  features  as  wrapt  and  immobile  as  a 
sleep-walker's,  with  eyes  half  closed  and  lips  parted. 

The  blood  began  to  pound  in  Mendall's  temples ;  she 
was  so  utterly  and  completely  graceful,  a  revelation  of 
a  thousand  poses.  Once  when  she  passed  him  she 
caught  his  whispered  "God!" 

"I  play  with  the  wind — out  in  the  meadow  there — " 
she  whispered  back.  "It  takes  this  away,  and  a-w-a-y 
— from — me — " 

She  chased  the  scarf  the  length  of  the  studio,  recap- 
tured it  with  infinite  grace,  and  with  it  held  high,  with 
head  thrown  back  to  watch  its  backward  sweep,  bore 
down  upon  Mendall. 

He  could  endure  no  more.  "For  God's  sake  stand 
still!  There — as  you  are  now!"  he  cried,  scarlet  and 
hoarse  from  excitement. 

Marie  stopped  like  arrested  thistledown,  and  he 
plunged  toward  her.  "Can  you  keep  that  pose  ?  Five 
minutes !    Ten !" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"My  lord!  But  you  are  beautiful!"  he  exclaimed, 
pausing  for  a  swift  survey  before  dashing  for  the 
canvas  he  had  stretched  days  before. 


MENDALL    GAINS    A    MODEL         143 

Marie  laughed,  a  low  note,  that  was  echoed  from  the 
doorway.  Not  even  her  acute  ears  had  heard  the  light 
rap  that  had  been  the  excuse  for  Mrs.  Bagsby's  en- 
trance. 

When  Mendall  whirled,  she  stood  smiling  amusedly 
at  them,  as  if  she  had  been  watching  for  some  time. 
"I  am  afraid  I  was  not  expected,"  she  said. 


XXIII 

AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR 

MRS.  BAGSBY  came  up  the  studio  to  them,  the 
long  cloak  that  had  covered  the  gown  in  which 
she  was  being  painted  trailing  behind  her.  As  she  ap- 
proached her  blue  regard  was  more  for  Marie  than  for 
Mendall. 

"I  am  sorry  I  interrupted  so  alluring  a  pose,"  she 
said  significantly,  and  then  she  looked  at  Mendall. 
"Clare  has  gone  on  to  Bellevue,  and  the  colored  woman 
told  me  I  should  find  you  here.  Perhaps  you  did  not 
get  my  note?" 

Mendall  had  forgotten  the  note  the  postman  had 
given  him  that  morning.  When  Marie  had  said  she 
was  ready  to  begin  her  lessons,  Mrs.  Bagsby's  coquet- 
tishly  worded  announcement  that  she  had  returned 
from  her  motor-trip  and  would  be  able  to  give  him  the 
morning  had  fled  from  his  mind.  Mendall  was  more 
capable  than  most  men  of  extricating  himself  from  an 
awkward  situation,  but,  on  this  occasion,  his  already 
flushed  face  grew  dusky;  he  had  so  completely  for- 
gotten. 

It  was  Marie  who  answered,  and  instantly.  "But 
no!    We  were  simply — how  is  it  you  say? — 'killing 

144 


AN   UNEXPECTED   VISITOR  145 

space*  until  Madame' s  appearance.  In  order  to  divert 
Monsieur's  impatience,  I  was  attempting  an  interpreta- 
tion of  the  spirit  of  Botticelli's  Allegory  of  Spring. 
Madame  has  seen  the  original,  of  course  ?" 

Mrs.  Bagsby  knew  she  was  being  flouted,  and  her 
glance  darkened  when  Marie's  soft  insolence  forced 
her  eyes  to  shift  from  Mendall's  face.  "Oh,  yes,  I 
know  it  very  well.  I  have  seen  it  frequently  in  Paris," 
she  said  coldly. 

"But  the  original  is  in  Florence,"  Marie  murmured, 
her  brows  raised  in  delicate  surprise. 

Mrs.  Bagsby  gave  her  the  benefit  of  a  disdainful 
profile.  "I  have  come  prepared,  you  see,"  she  said  in  a 
pleasantly  businesslike  way  to  Mendall,  as  she  dropped 
her  cloak  and  took  her  pose.  "The  light  is  perfect  to- 
day— I  am  so  glad." 

Her  shoulders  were  lovely,  the  lines  of  her  bust  and 
hips  beautiful;  as  beautiful  as  her  profile.  Marie  as- 
similated her  perfections  with  her  usual  sleepy  intent- 
ness. 

Mendall  bent  and  lifted  the  cloak,  laying  it  across  a 
chair.  He  had  recovered  himself  enough  to  be  both 
amused  and  angry.  The  instant  antagonism  of  the 
two  women,  and  Marie's  resourcefulness  amused  him. 
He  was  angry  because  his  studio  had  been  invaded. 
No  one  had  a  right  to  walk  into  his  studio ;  it  was  his 
5anctuary.  And  it  was  Marie  he  was  quivering  to 
paint  this  morning,  not  Mrs.  Bagsby.  He  would  be 
unable  to  paint  either  of  them  now,  he  was  so  irri- 
tated. 


146  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

But  Mendall  was  accustomed  to  hiding  anger;  his 
nerves  were  rasped  raw  most  of  the  time.  Marie  had 
saved  him  an  explanation,  so  he  fell  back,  as  he  some- 
times did,  on  his  New  England  formality.  "Pardon 
me — the  introduction  comes  a  little  late  I  am  afraid — 
Mrs.  Bagsby,  this  is  Miss  Ogilvie,  my  latest  and  most 
promising  pupil." 

To  Marie's  softly  ironical,  "I  am  charmed  to  meet 
Madame,"  Mrs.  Bagsby  inclined  carelessly.  "It  will 
be  some  little  time  before  Clare  calls  for  me,"  she  said 
to  Mendall,  "so  we  can  have  our  sitting  undisturbed, 
as  usual."    It  was  a  dismissal  of  Marie. 

With  a  man's  usual  instinct  to  keep  clear  of  a  fem- 
inine contest,  Mendall  left  the  matter  to  Marie,  and 
busied  himself  with  placing  the  portrait.  But  he  al- 
most lost  control  of  his  features  when  he  saw  Marie's 
next  maneuver.  She  went  to  her  easel,  the  task  he  had 
set  her,  and  seating  herself  became  absorbed  in  her 
drawing;  she  was  not  to  be  eliminated. 

Mendall  had  his  foibles,  he  could  not  paint  with  on- 
lookers about.  Mrs.  Mendall  knew  his  peculiarities 
and  never  intruded.  Clare  Bagsby  had  discovered  that 
Mendall's  annoyance  at  her  presence  was  not  because 
he  wanted  a  tete-a-tete  with  her  stepmother,  that  when 
his  art  was  concerned  Mendall  was  honest.  Mendall 
could  not  paint  with  Marie's  yellow  eyes  on  him,  and 
had  he  been  in  a  mood  really  to  work  he  would  have 
promptly  banished  her.  But  the  day  had  been  spoiled 
for  him.  He  could  not  paint  a  decent  stroke  in  any 
case ;  Marie  might  have  her  way  for  all  he  cared.   He 


AN   UNEXPECTED    VISITOR  147 

worked  a  little  on  his  background  and  played  with  un- 
important parts  of  the  drapery,  silent  for  the  most 
part. 

Mrs.  Bagsby  flushed  from  throat  to  brow  when  she 
realized  how  she  was  being  circumvented.  She  had 
come  with  a  purpose :  to  learn  from  Mendall  all  she 
could  about  the  girl  who,  chaperoned  by  his  wife,  rode 
so  easily  in  MacAllister's  car  and  ordered  silk  lingerie 
with  the  sang-froid  of  a  princess.  Mendall  must  of 
course  know  her,  and  Mrs.  Bagsby  had  been  uneasy 
while  on  her  motor-trip. 

But,  until  she  encountered  Marie  in  the  studio,  it 
had  not  occurred  to  her  that  the  girl  might  be  staying 
at  the  Mendalls'.  She  felt  certain  of  it  now,  and  there 
was  alarm  mingled  with  her  anger,  for  there  was 
something  more  than  the  grasping  tendency  of  the 
practised  coquette  in  her  fancy  for  Carl  Mendall.  She 
was  thirty,  ennuied  by  her  marriage,  secretly  bored  by 
her  surroundings  which  she  had  sifted  to  the  very 
chaff  in  her  search  for  diversion.  Carl  Mendall  stirred 
her.  She  had  gone  pretty  far ;  she  was  tempted  to  risk 
even  more;  she  was  enjoying  her  recklessness.  She 
considered  herself  clever  enough  to  cope  with  any 
woman  in  Laclasse,  clever  enough  to  utilize  her  wide- 
awake stepdaughter.     .     .     .     But  this  girl? 

She  talked  a  good  deal  to  Mendall  as  he  played  with 
palette  and  colors,  a  skilful  setting  forth  of  her  social 
importance,  amused  comments  on  this  dinner  and  that, 
followed  by  a  sighing  confession  that  she  meant  to 
spend  the  summer  in  Laclasse  with  dances  at  the  Coun- 


148  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

try  Club  for  diversion.  She  evidently  danced  much 
and  well,  for  Mendall's  remark  was  genuinely  ad- 
miring : 

"You  dance  as  naturally  and  as  gracefully  as  you 
walk.  The  innate  dancer  is  not  affected  by  the 
weather.    A  little  languor,  perhaps,  but  what  of  that." 

"I  might  say  the  same  of  you,"  she  retorted  lightly. 

He  looked  across  his  raised  brush  at  her,  the  first 
appreciative  glance  he  had  given  her  since  she  came 
in.     "It's  a  form  of  intoxication." 

She  smiled  at  him. 

Mendall  took  up  the  subject  after  a  time.  "I  wish 
you  would  introduce  some  of  the  Spanish  dances.  The 
love-challenge  is  more  clearly  expressed  in  them  than 
in  the  Anglo-Saxon  motion  to  music.  I  like  the  co- 
quetry of  the  Spanish  dances,  and  as  they  are  danced 
by  the  half  savages  of  the  Isthmus  they  are  marvelous. 
We  can't  do  it  as  they  can.  If  you've  ever  watched 
negroes  dance  you'll  know  what  I  mean ;  there  is  both 
verve  and  subtlety  in  their  dance-expression.  The 
nearer  we  get  to  the  savage  the  more  perfectly  ex- 
pressed is  the  love-challenge ;  and  after  all  it's  the  love- 
call  that  underlies  all  motion  to  music — even  the  so- 
called  religious  dances." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  laughed  softly.  "You  are  right,  of 
course,  though  Laclasse  would  be  shocked  at  your 
views." 

"I  don't  state  them  to  Laclasse." 

"Nor  do  I  advertise  my  convictions."  She  sighed 
wearily :  "Oh,  Laclasse !" 


AN   UNEXPECTED   VISITOR  149 

There  was  an  intensity  of  contempt  in  Mendall's 
reply.  "It's  in  the  middle-western  town  that  the  Puri- 
tanism which  makes  a  hypocrite,  more  or  less,  of 
every  American,  really  flourishes.  It's  been  pushed 
out  of  the  East  by  Southern  European  ideas — which 
are  anything  but  Puritanical — and  trekked  westward, 
but  never  really  reached  the  Pacific  Coast.  It  was 
scared  by  the  wide  expanse  of  nature.  It  got  lost  in 
the  sands  of  the  desert.  It  lodged  in  the  middle-west- 
ern town,  a  residue  that  mingles  funnily  with  bald 
commercialism  and  an  entire  lack  of  subtlety." 

"How  well  you  express  the  things  I  have  only  dared 
think,"  his  sitter  said,  her  violet  eyes  grown  wide  and 
wistful. 

Marie  smiled  slightly.  Mrs.  Bagsby's  tactics  ap- 
peared to  entertain  her.  The  look  Marie  surrepti- 
tiously bestowed  on  her  was  much  the  same  watchful 
consideration  a  tiger  would  give  a  panther.  Mendall 
she  studied  thoughtfully,  his  youthful  erectness,  his 
clean-cut  features,  his  black  hair,  dusky  tinting,  and 
arrogant  lips. 

She  smiled  again  to  herself.  Her  expression  said: 
"The  woman  is  a  fool!" 


XXIV 

MARIE  SCORES 

IT  was  at  this  juncture  the  honk  of  a  car  announced 
Clare  Bagsby's  return.  As  a  general  thing  she 
was  kept  waiting,  a  space  she  usually  utilized  for  con- 
versation with  Mrs.  Mendall.  This  morning  Mendall 
put  down  his  palette  promptly.  He  hated  to  play  over 
his  work. 

"Margaret  is  not  here,"  he  said.  "I'll  bring  Miss 
Bagsby  in." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  was  left  to  don  her  cloak  and  glance 
frequently  in  Marie's  direction.  Marie  continued  to 
handle  her  pencil  deftly,  oblivious  of  her  presence. 

But  Mrs.  Bagsby  was  not  easily  daunted.  She 
wanted  information.  "I  suppose  you  felt  the  shock 
of  the  explosion  very  severely  here,  the  other  night. 
It  was  an  outrageous  thing,  wasn't  it?  Mr.  MacAllis- 
ter  has  every  one's  sympathy — except,  of  course,  the 
pro-Germans." 

"Are  you  pro-German,  Madame?" 

Mrs.  Bagsby  had  intended  to  be  answered,  not  ques- 
tioned. "Oh,  indeed  I  am  not!  .  .  .  Are  you  stay- 
ing here,  with  the  Mendalls,  Miss  Ogilvie  ?" 

Marie  did  not  look  up.    "Owt." 

"For  some  time?" 

150 


MARIE    SCORES  151 

"Indefinitely." 

"You  are  a  relation  of  Mr.  MacAllister's,  I  suppose 
— your  name  is  Scotch." 

Marie  answered  in  French.  "Doubtless  Adam  and 
Eve  were  responsible  for  us  both,  Madame." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  was  silenced.  She  knew  the  girl  was 
speaking  French  purposely  to  confuse  her,  and  the 
look  she  bestowed  on  Mendall's  busy  pupil  was  not  an 
affectionate  one.  Clare  Bagsby  when  she  came  in 
caught  the  look  and  observed  its  direction;  her  step- 
mother's smile  was  not  assumed  quickly  enough. 

"I  was  prepared  for  a  wait,"  Clare  said  breezily. 
"You  are  punctual  this  morning,  Blanche ;  we  shall  ac- 
tually get  back  in  time  for  lunch.  .  .  .  Hello!  I 
haven't  seen  the  portrait  for  ages — it's  about  done, 
isn't  it?" 

Marie  lowered  her  pencil  and  looked  at  the  new- 
comer. She  had  swept  into  the  studio,  a  tall  girl, 
square-shouldered,  long-limbed  and  long-waisted,  thin 
as  a  boy  and  as  erect  as  an  athlete.  She  was  certainly 
not  beautiful,  and  yet,  in  spite  of  her  long  face  and 
muzzle-like  formation  of  jaw,  she  was  not  ugly;  she 
looked  too  thoroughly  alive.  Her  skin  was  clear,  her 
eyes  dark  and  bright,  and  when  she  smiled,  which  was 
often,  she  showed  a  row  of  beautifully  even  white 
teeth.  At  forty  she  would  be  a  stately  woman;  at 
twenty-one  she  was  wholesomely  virginal.  Perhaps 
the  most  pronounced  thing  about  Clare  Bagsby  was  the 
atmosphere  of  cleanness  that  enveloped  her. 

Marie's  acute  sense  felt  it;  she  looked  narrowly 


152  THE  TIGER'S   COAT 

and  smilelessly  at  this  girl  whose  experience  of  life — 
whatever  her  age  might  be — would  total  no  such  sum 
as  her  own.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  her  thoughts,  possibly 
because  of  them,  when  Mendall  introduced  her,  Marie 
rose  and  offered  her  hand. 

"I  have  looked  with  admiration  at  Mr.  Mendall's 
painting  of  you,"- she  said,  in  her  thick  rich  tones.  "I 
am  glad  now  I  see  the  whole,"  and  with  her  free  hand 
she  made  a  little  gesture  comprehensive  of  Clare's  en- 
tire personality.  Marie's  astonishing  graciousness  was 
utterly  foreign  in  expression,  and  indescribably  grace- 
ful. 

Mendall's  eyes  widened  slightly,  and  Clare  looked 
pleased.  "You  can  say  beautiful  things — beautifully," 
she  said  somewhat  bruskly.  "What  are  you  doing — a 
bit  of  still-life?" 

"A  little  task  my  teacher  has  given  me.  It  is  so  long 
since  I  have  drawn — I  do  it  as  if  with  my  feet." 

Clare  laughed.  "I  wish  I  could  do  as  well  with 
mine !    Mr.  Mendall  gave  me  up  long  ago." 

"He  is  a  severe  teacher,  is  he  not?"  The  assump- 
tion of  anxiety  was  so  well  done  that  both  Clare  and 
Mendall  laughed. 

"If  you  can  draw  as  easily  as  you  choose  expensive 
clothes,  Laclasse'll  welcome  you  as  a  genius,"  Clare 
said  significantly.  "I  saw  and  heard  you  the  other  day, 
though  you  didn't  see  me." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  saw  you  from  the  back  of  my  head — I 
see  many  things  from  the  back  of  my  head." 


MARIE    SCORES  153 

Clare  nodded  amusedly.  "I  bet  you  do.  Have  you 
come  to  this  part  of  the  world  to  stay?" 

"I  hope  I  may." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  had  been  thinking  unpleasantly  as  she 
looked  on.  This  girl  would  capture  Laclasse  if  given 
the  opportunity.  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
open  enmity,  so  on  her  way  to  the  door  she  inserted  her 
word.  "Miss  Ogilvie  is  visiting  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mendall, 
Clare.  Perhaps  if  we  call  for  her  some  morning  she 
would  like  to  see  the  boulevard.  We  really  have  a  nice 
boulevard  system,  Miss  Ogilvie."  As  usual  Mrs. 
Bagsby  was  utilizing  her  stepdaughter. 

Marie  did  not  wait  for  Clare's  seconding.  Her  yel- 
low gaze  fastened  upon  Mrs.  Bagsby.  "Madame  is 
very  kind,  but  I  do  not  ride  in  the  mornings — my  time 
will  be  given  to  this,"  and  she  pointed  to  her  drawing. 
Then  with  shoulder  to  Mrs.  Bagsby  she  proffered  an 
invitation  to  Clare.  "When  Madame  is  absorbed  by 
her  portrait  and  you  wait  without,  perhaps  you  will 
walk  up  the  hill  with  me.  It  is  as  well  to  enjoy  one's 
self  at  the  same  time  that  one  is  useful." 

The  coolness  with  which  Marie  expressed  her  under- 
standing of  a  situation  that  must  have  its  trials  for 
Clare  was  cruel  in  its  astuteness.  Mendall  smiled 
slightly,  and  Mrs.  Bagsby  grew  crimson. 

Clare  flushed,  hesitated,  then  resolutely  accepted. 
"All  right,  we'll  do  that  some  time." 

"I  look  forward  then  to  a  pleasure." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  was  silent  until  seated  in  her  car.  But 


154  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

as  Mendall  arranged  the  robe  about  her  knees,  she 
looked  into  his  eyes,  the  look  that  tells  a  man  his  way 
is  clear;  that  the  little  barriers  prudence,  or  coquetry, 
or  fear  have  erected  are  down;  the  look  of  surrender. 
She  had  grown  a  little  pale,  and  tight-lipped. 

Mendall  looked  after  the  beckoning  plume  in  her 
hat  as  long  as  it  was  in  sight.  His  face  had  become 
expressionless. 

Then  he  turned  and  hurried  back  into  the  studio. 
But  Marie  had  fled.  She  did  not  appear  at  lunch-time 
— nor  did  Mrs.  Mendall. 


XXV 

UNEASE 

AFTER  leaving  the  Mendalls'  door  Mrs.  Bagsby 
X~\.and  Clare  rode  in  silence  for  a  time.  Clare 
guessed  what  was  passing  in  her  stepmother's  mind, 
for  she  had  an  exceedingly  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
combination  of  cleverness,  slyness,  vanity  and  folly 
that  was  Blanche  Bagsby. 

Her  stepmother  was  one  of  the  few  people  with 
whom  Clare  used  finesse.  It  was  a  necessity  Clare 
hated.  What  it  was  costing  her  to  watch  over  her 
father's  interests  no  one  but  Clare  knew.  The  task 
was  too  much  for  her  patience  sometimes.  To  be  told 
by  a  mere  stranger  that  she  was  being  used  as  a  cover 
to  a  flirtation  was  not  pleasant;  Clare  was  hot  with 
irritation  which  she  felt  she  must  not  show. 

Clare  was  also  anxiously  wondering  what  effect  Ma- 
rie's appearance  would  have  upon  her  stepmother's 
affair  with  Carl  Mendall.  If  it  would  harmlessly  ter- 
minate it,  she  would  be  endlessly  grateful  to  Marie 
Ogilvie.  .  .  .  But  that  was  not  likely.  Her  step- 
mother had  been  uneasy  ever  since  they  had  seen  Marie 
with  Mrs.  Mendall,  and  now  she  was  furious.  Anger 
and  affronted  vanity  might  drive  her  to  do  something 
dangerously  sly.     Clare  knew  that  Blanche  Bagsby 

155 


156  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

was  capable  of  resorting  to  underhand  methods.  It 
would  depend  then  largely  on  Carl  Mendall  how  far 
she  would  go,  and  he  was/ an  uncertain  quantity.  Most 
men  would  be  unreliable  under  such  circumstances.  For 
weeks  Clare  had  been  in  a  quandary ;  secretly  anxious, 
and  doubtful  how  best  to  protect  her  father.  Now  she 
was  really  alarmed. 

When  Mrs.  Bagsby  spoke  it  was  of  Marie.  If  they 
had  not  both  been  thinking  of  her  the  remark  would 
have  appeared  unwarrantably  abrupt.  "That  queer 
creature  is  some  connection  of  Alexander  MacAllis- 
ter's,  Clare." 

"Did  she  say  so?"  Clare  asked. 

"No,  but  she  jabbered  in  French  when  I  asked  her; 
it  was  her  way  of  avoiding  an  answer." 

"And  of  telling  you  to  mind  your  own  business," 
was  Clare's  thought,  but  she  did  not  say  so.  Still  a 
little  of  her  secret  irritation  crept  into  her  answer:  "I 
don't  see  that  it's  our  affair,  Blanche." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  was  instantly  on  her  guard.  "It  isn't, 
of  course,"  she  said,  laughing,  "though  you  must  grant 
she  is  a  queer  thing.  I  wonder  what  Mrs.  Mendall 
thinks  of  her." 

Clare  thought  it  best  to  say:  "I'm  sorry  for  the 
Mendalls  if  she  is  their  visitor.  They're  too  poor  to 
enjoy  an  extravagant  girl  like  that.  It  must  be  no 
end  of  bother." 

"She  must  have  money — buying  clothes  as  she  did." 

"If  she  has,  and  is  related  to  Mr.  MacAllister,  she'll 
be  meeting  people  in  Laclasse,  Blanche,  and  we'll  hear 


UNEASE  157 

all  about  her — and  more — so  why  bother  ourselves 
wondering.    .    .    .    What  time  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Bagsby  consulted  her  wrist-watch,  a  diamond- 
set  jewel  which  she  wore  with  easy  grace.  As  Blanche 
Eckart,  Mrs.  Bagsby  had  not  indulged  in  such  extrava- 
gances ;  her  father  s  cashiership  in  a  secondary  Boston 
bank  did  not  allow  of  lavish  expenditure.  That,  how- 
ever, had  not  deterred  his  daughter  from  extracting 
every  penny  she  could  from  him  for  her  personal 
adornment,  while  she  watched  for  her  opportunity. 
Marrying  Frederick  Bagsby  meant  that  she  must  live 
in  the  West,  but  he  had  a  considerable  fortune,  and 
nothing  else  worth  taking  had  offered.  And  she  was 
twenty-six.  To  Frederick  Bagsby  himself  she  had 
given  less  consideration  than  to  anything  else. 

Clare  had  her  thoughts  as  she  watched  her  step- 
mother's leisurely  examination  of  her  watch.  She  had 
long  ago  forgiven  her  father  his  error  in  judgment. 
Her  "poor  Dad!"  What  chance  had  he  had  against 
such  a  combination  of  circumstances — and  such  a  pro- 
file. When  tempted  to  weep,  Clare  usually  laughed; 
when  angered  by  it  all  she  held  her  peace.  It  was  the 
future  that  made  her  anxious,  for  her  stepmother  was 
a  confirmed  poseur,  and,  as  is  usual  with  those  who 
systematically  play  a  part,  she  was  liable  to  moments 
of  abandon. 

"It's  fifteen  minutes  of  one,"  Mrs.  Bagsby  an- 
nounced. 

"Good!  We'll  stop  for  father  then,  and  take  him 
home  for  lunch.     I'll  persuade  him  to  go  out  to  the 


158  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

Country  Club  for  golf  this  afternoon.  You  come  out 
and  have  tea  with  us,  Blanche." 

"The  middle  of  the  week !  There  would  be  nobody 
there  to-day,  Clare." 

"We'd  be  there — Dad  would  enjoy  it." 

"He  won't  go — he  is  too  busy  to-day.  He  has  a 
school  board  meeting  after  the  bank  closes." 

"We  can  get  him  for  lunch,  anyway." 

Her  stepmother  was  not  enthusiastic.  "He  is  sure 
to  be  going  to  lunch  with  some  man." 

"He  ought  to  come  home  and  rest  till  the  meeting," 
Clare  persisted.  "He  is  tired  out;  he  hasn't  looked  a 
bit  well  this  spring." 

"It's  this  miserable  climate !"  Mrs.  Bagsby  asserted, 
a  trifle  sharply.  "When  the  heat  begins  it  is  enough 
to  take  the  life  out  of  even  a  native." 

Clare  said  no  more,  but  she  thought  hotly  that  noth- 
ing could  be  sweeter  than  the  May  breeze  that  warmed 
their  cheeks.  She  loved  the  clean  breath  of  the  prai- 
rie, even  when  it  came  pantingly,  heated  by  the  mid- 
summer sun.  It  was  the  breath  of  Nebraska;  her 
state,  and  her  father's  before  her.  There  was  some- 
thing fundamentally  wrong  with  the  creature  who 
would  complain  of  a  day  like  this;  there  was  the  scent 
of  fallen  cherry  blooms  in  the  air,  and  sprouting  corn, 
and  young  alfalfa.  It  was  rank  ingratitude  to  fruit- 
ful nature.  But  what  could  you  expect  of  a  woman 
who,  though  possessing  every  comfort,  was  secretly 
seething  with  discontent  ? 

But  she  said  nothing  until  Mrs.  Bagsby  suggested : 


UNEASE  159 

"Clare,  I  think  it  would  be  delightful  to  close  the  sea- 
son with  a  costume  dance  at  the  club.  To  make  it  orig- 
inal some  of  us  might  learn  one  or  two  of  the  Spanish 
dances — as  a  special  feature,  I  mean;  a  sort  of  exhibi- 
tion dance." 

"In  this  awful  heat!"  Clare  could  not  help  retort- 
ing.   "You  would  be  too  overcome  to  dance,  Blanche." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  fell  back  upon  her  soft  laugh.  "How 
ridiculous  you  are.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  scornful  of 
your  beloved  Middle  West !  .  .  .  What  do  you  say, 
Clare?  Six  of  us  might  learn  the  fandango — you  and 
I  and — Elizabeth  Nast — she  dances  well.  .  .  .  Then 
for  the  men — Ellis  Kraup,  of  course,  and  Harmon 
Kent — they're  the  most  graceful  men  dancers — and 
some  other  man.  If  we  could  find  some  one  who  knows 
the  Spanish  dances  it  would  be  perfect — he  could  coach 
us.    Several  of  the  men  here  have  lived  in  Mexico." 

Clare  reflected  that  Blanche's  tactics  were  sometimes 
a  little  like  those  of  the  ostrich.  She  knew  instantly 
whom  she  had  in  mind  for  "the  other  man."  Clare 
had  not  heard  Mendall's  eulogy  of  the  Spanish  dances, 
but  it  was  plain  to  Clare  that  her  stepmother  was  in- 
tending to  do  exactly  what  Clare  had  feared :  tighten 
her  hold  on  Carl  Mendall;  vanquish  the  newcomer. 
She  would  see  to  it  that  Marie  Ogilvie  was  not  invited 
to  her  dance,  and,  if  she  could,  she  would  exclude  Mrs. 
Mendall  also ;  she  was  playing  a  dangerous  game. 

"There  is  Alexander  MacAllister — he  has  lived  in 
Mexico,"  Clare  suggested  calmly. 

Mrs.  Bagsby  rippled  into  laughter.     "Care!    The 


160  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

look  Mr.  Mac  Alii  ster  would  give  any  one  who  pro- 
posed such  a  thing !  Blue  steel  would  stab  more  gently ! 
.  .  ,.  But  we  can  settle  on  the  other  man  later — don't 
you  think  it  would  be  fun?" 

"I  don't  think  it  would  be  worth  the  bother,  Blanche. 
As  for  me — no  fandango  for  mine !" 

"Nonsense,  Clare!  You'll  change  your  mind  when 
the  time  comes.  I  believe  it  would  be  a  success ;  I  be- 
lieve I'll  do  it,"  Mrs.  Bagsby  said  with  soft  enthusi- 
asm. 

Clare  knew  if  her  stepmother  willed  to  give  the 
dance  she  would  give  it,  and  that  it  would  be  a  suc- 
cess. She  was  considered  one  of  the  best  entertainers 
in  Laclasse,  and  though  not  loved,  was  deferred  to. 
She  was  so  refined;  so  eastern;  so  exquisitely  critical. 
She  mourned  the  lack  of  culture  in  Laclasse.  As  a 
bride  she  had  immediately  taken  the  lead  in  all  the  im- 
provement clubs.  She  had  worked — gracefully — for 
woman's  suffrage. 

But  withal  Blanche  was  a  fool,  Clare  reflected  scorn- 
fully. Her  conceit  kept  her  from  realizing  that  there 
were  many  in  Laclasse  who  understood  her  perfectly. 
Did  she  think  she  could  live  three  years  in  the  same 
house  with  any  fairly  intelligent  woman  and  not  be 
discovered !  It  was  a  constant  irritation  to  Clare  that 
her  stepmother  took  it  for  granted  that  she  as  well  as 
the  rest  of  Laclasse  was  blind  to  her  affair  with  Carl 
Mendall.  And  yet  it  seemed  best  not  to  enlighten  her. 
Why  was  it  that  so  many  clever  women  made  fools  of 
themselves  over  men  ? 


UNEASE  161 

Clare  sighed  inwardly,  while  she  continued  to  dis- 
courage her  stepmother.  "I  wouldn't  undertake  it," 
she  advised.  "Everything  you've  pushed  this  winter 
has  gone  swimmingly.  I  wouldn't  risk  ending  the  sea- 
son with  something  that  may  be  a  failure." 

Mrs.  Bagsby  yielded  too  easily.  "Perhaps  you  are 
right,"  she  conceded,  and  talked  of  other  things.  It 
was  a  bad  sign;  Clare  knew  now  that  if  humanly  pos- 
sible the  dance  would  be  given. 


XXVI 

MAC  ALLISTER  GETS  HIS  WAY 

TWENTY  minutes  later,  as  MacAllister  came 
down  the  steps  of  the  Laclasse  National  Bank, 
he  saw  Mrs.  Bagsby  and  Clare  going  up  Broad  Street 
in  their  car.  His  frown  deepened  as  he  looked  after 
them,  for  he  guessed  where  they  had  been.  He  had 
just  been  talking  to  Bagsby,  and  in  the  Mendalls'  be- 
half, for  he  had  learned  that  morning  that  the  school 
board  intended  to  drop  Carl  Mendall. 

But  Bagsby  had  been  obdurate,  and  MacAllister  un- 
derstood perfectly  the  reason.  Mrs.  Bagsby  was  evi- 
dently determined  to  go  her  own  way  and  carry  her 
stepdaughter  with  her,  and  Bagsby  had  hit  upon  this 
means  of  ridding  himself  of  Carl  Mendall ;  the  young 
man  would  be  forced  to  seek  employment  elsewhere. 

MacAllister  had  been  thoroughly  irritated  by  Bags- 
by's  stubbornness,  and  not  merely  because  of  self-in- 
terest. He  considered  that  Bagsby  would  be  doing  the 
worst  possible  thing  for  himself.  Mrs.  Bagsby's  flirta- 
tion with  Carl  Mendall  was  only  whispered  gossip  so 
far,  but  if  Bagsby  turned  his  back  on  Mendall  the  re- 
sult might  be  an  actual  scandal.  Still,  one  couldn't 
offer  a  man  advice  regarding  his  wife.  Some  one 
ought  to  take  Mrs.  Bagsby  in  hand,  and  decidedly.  A 

162 


MACALLISTER   GETS    HIS   WAY      163 

man  who  had  reached  Bagsby's  age  and  married  a 
young  wife  was  a  fool!  MacAllister  looked  after  the 
Bagsbys'  car  with  no  pleasant  expression. 

Suddenly  his  face  changed.  Just  before  him  on  the 
corner  was  Mrs.  Mendall,  gowned  in  neatly  starched 
white  and  with  brows  drawn  in  perplexity.  She  was 
looking  down  Sixteenth,  evidently  consulting  the  clock 
in  the  post-office  tower. 

MacAllister  paused  beside  her.  "Are  ye  just  helping 
the  day  to  look  spring-like,  Mrs.  Mendall,  or  are  ye 
about  business  like  the  rest  of  Laclasse?"  he  inquired 
quizzically. 

She  turned  in  surprise.  "Oh,  Mr.  MacAllister !  No, 
I  see  I  have  missed  my  car.  I  was  wondering  what 
to  do." 

"Ye've  missed  the  one  o'clock  Bellevue  car,  certainly, 
and  yer  lunch  with  it,  I  presume." 

"I  am  afraid  I  have." 

"Weel,  can't  yer  family  eat  luncheon  without  ye  for 
once  ?" 

"They  can,  of  course,  but  I  ought  to  be  there,"  she 
said  anxiously. 

Though  in  a  particularly  bad  humor,  MacAllister 
was  amused.  He  had  given  Mrs.  Mendall  and  her 
difficulties  some  thought.  She  interested  him.  Mar- 
ried to  such  a  man  as — Bagsby,  for  instance — she 
would  go  through  life  smoothly  enough;  she  would 
certainly  be  a  tender  and  devoted  mother.  But  she  was 
married  to  Carl  Mendall  and  there  was  trouble  ahead 
for  her.    Mendall  was  by  nature  an  amatory  wanderer. 


164  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

She  knew  it,  and  was  deeply  jealous.  Hers  was  a  pos- 
sessive love;  MacAllister  judged  that  she  would  fight 
to  the  finish  for  what  was  hers. 

He  had  also  wondered  why  she  disliked  him.  He 
was  aware  that  many  people  criticized  him;  that  he 
was  considered  too  Bohemian — to  put  it  mildly — and 
that  his  long  intimacy  with  Freda  O'Rourke,  in  par- 
ticular, had  won  him  an  ill-name.  He  had  cared  very 
little  what  Laclasse  thought  of  his  unconventionalities, 
but  his  friendship  for  Freda  O'Rourke  was  a  matter 
that  had  always  touched  him  closely.  He  had  decided 
that  Mrs.  Mendall's  New  England  primness  had  been 
offended  by  the  gossip  she  had  heard.  He  was  tempted 
to  test  her.  It  mattered  a  good  deal  to  him  in  what 
light  he  was  presented  to  Marie. 

He  regarded  her  gravely.  "Yer  household  may 
quarrel  in  yer  absence,  ye  think?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  felt  uncomfortable.  Possibly  Marie 
had  told  him  that  Mendall  treated  her  with  scant  cour- 
tesy. "Oh,  no/'  she  protested.  "It's  just  that  I  prom- 
ised to  be  back.  I  shall  wait  the  next  half-hour  some- 
where," and  she  began  to  walk  aimlessly  up  the  street. 

MacAllister  kept  by  her  side.  Two  of  her  short  steps 
scarcely  equaled  his  stride ;  she  was  so  pretty  and  petite 
that  frequently  she  reminded  him  of  a  dignified  child. 
Suddenly  she  began  to  walk  in  her  usual  alert  fashion. 
"I  can't  get  back,  so  why  worry.  I'll  go  on  to  the  li- 
brary and  wait  there." 

"And  how  about  yer  lunch?"  MacAllister  asked. 
"I'm  afraid,  Mrs.  Mendall,  ye've  caught  the  universal 


MACALLISTER   GETS   HIS   WAY      165 

fever — that  ye're  pondering  'Economic  Freedom  for 
Woman'  and  such  like  ?  I've  seen  ye  several  times — I 
saw  ye  this  morning — hurrying  into  the  business 
school  just  this  side  of  our  stately  public  library. 
What  is  it  has  been  so  absorbing  ye  there  that  ye  forgot 
about  yer  family,  and  even  yer  lunch?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  flushed  scarlet.  She  had  not  told  any 
one  why  she  came  into  Laclasse  so  frequently.  Her 
little  venture  was  an  experiment  she  had  kept  to  her- 
self. And  she  did  not  like  MacAllister's  faintly  teas- 
ing manner.  It  offended  her  dignity.  Their  attitude 
to  each  other  had  always  been  mutually  complimentary. 
If  she  were  not  in  a  way  beholden  to  him,  she  would 
have  frozen  him. 

She  managed  to  smile,  however.  "I  am  learning 
stenography,  and  not  finding  it  very  easy,"  she  con- 
fessed. "My  mother,  if  she  knew  of  it,  would  think  it 
dreadful.  But  women  seem  to  be  learning  to  do  all 
sorts  of  things."  It  was  all  the  explanation  she  meant 
to  make. 

MacAllister  understood  perfectly.  He  judged  that, 
if  necessary,  she  would  not  hesitate  to  become  the 
bread-winner  of  the  family.  She  certainly  loved  her 
husband  enough  to  do  it.  She  was  not  of  the  "emanci- 
pated" order,  however.  Every  thought  she  had 
seemed  to  circle  about  her  husband.  A  little  broad- 
ening would  not  hurt  her.  She  was  evidently  given  to 
prejudices.  She  made  her  own  little  universe  and 
lived  within  it. 

"There  are  plenty  of  women  in  Laclasse  who  are 


166  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

doing  for  themselves,"  he  remarked.  "I  should  think 
ye'd  enjoy  talking  with  a  few  of  them.  Ye  see,  Mrs. 
Mendall,  I  sometimes  attend  a  suffrage  meeting.  I 
was  a  bit  sorry  when  the  election  went  against  the 
women.  I'll  confess  it  was  plain  curiosity  possessed 
me  in  the  beginning,  just  as  it  was  curiosity  tuke  me  to 
labor  meetings.  For  fifteen  years  I've  watched  every 
eruption  in  this  state,  political,  religious,  or  psychical 
— it's  only  a  fool  who  doesn't — and  I  assure  ye  this 
gathering  together  of  the  women  for  a  purpose  im- 
pressed me.  I  can't  say  I  liked  the  manner  or  the 
methods  of  some  of  the  ladies  who  had  their  say  re- 
garding equal  rights,  the  double  standard,  economic  in- 
dependence, and  the  like,  but  just  as  soon  as  it  got 
fixed  in  my  mind  that  for  a  revolution  ye've  got  to  have 
officers  and  soldiers  and  politicians,  and  a  certain  num- 
ber of  cranks  and  pretenders  and  busybodies  generally, 
I  got  down  to  the  fact  that,  whether  I  liked  it  or  not, 
something  of  permanent  and  radical  importance  was 
doing  in  the  feminine  world.  .  .  .  What  do  ye  think 
of  it  all,  Mrs.  Mendall?" 

"I  really  know  very  little  about  it."  She  spoke  with 
a  slight  deepening  of  her  usual  aloofness,  with  a  touch 
of  distaste  as  well. 

It  was  exactly  the  sort  of  answer  MacAllister  had 
expected.  He  had  merely  been  filling  in  time.  They 
were  approaching  the  library  now. 

"Are  ye  actually  proposing  to  wait  till  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  for  yer  lunch?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  shan't  mind." 


MACALLISTER    GETS    HIS    WAY      167 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  glad  they  were  nearing  the  end 
of  their  walk.  She  had  thought  every  moment  that  he 
would  leave  her,  but  he  had  come  on,  past  the  hand- 
some new  court-house,  past  the  business  school,  evi- 
dently bent  upon  accompanying  her  to  the  very  steps 
of  the  library  which  he  had  sarcastically  designated  as 
"stately."  The  building  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
erected  by  the  city  in  a  mild  fit  of  concern  over  its 
good  name,  and  then  left  to  languish  on  a  meager  ap- 
propriation; as  if  it  apologized  to  every  one  who  en- 
tered its  door  in  quest  of  volumes  it  did  not  possess. 
Mrs.  Mendall  hoped  MacAllister  did  not  intend  to  go 
in  with  her. 

She  dismissed  him  with  her  most  dimpled  smile. 
"I  must  say  good-by  here.  I  suppose  you  are  com- 
ing out  to  see  Marie  to-day.  She  is  taking  her  first 
drawing  lesson  this  morning,  and  Carl  told  me  before 
I  left  that  she  could  draw  exceedingly  well.', 

It  had  struck  Mrs.  Mendall  that  MacAllister  looked 
harassed;  grimmer  than  usual,  and  in  anything  but  a 
pleasant  frame  of  mind.  The  loss  of  his  plant  cer- 
tainly must  have  been  a  trial,  and  from  several  little 
indications,  an  added  concern  over  Marie  that  she  had 
noticed  in  the  last  few  days,  she  had  judged  that  he 
was  more  than  usually  troubled  over  his  daughter.  She 
purposely  gave  him  her  husband's  good  opinion  of 
Marie,  and  was  promptly  rewarded  by  seeing  his  face 
brighten. 

"Eh,  is  that  so !    Weel,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

"Good  health  is  making  a  wonderful  change  in  her. 


168  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

I  think  most  people  would  call  her  beautiful,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  continued  generously. 

MacAllister  himself  had  called  Marie  beautiful,  so 
she  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  his  sudden  frown. 
"Yes,  she's  beautiful,"  he  returned  shortly.  "We  can't 
help  that." 

He  looked  down,  scowling,  and  his  eye  fell  upon  a 
beetle  that  was  scuttling  across  the  hot  step.  For  a 
moment  Mrs.  Mendall  thought  he  was  going  to  put 
his  foot  on  it ;  she  judged  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  Mac- 
Allister would  do.  But  if  such  was  his  intention  he 
changed  his  mind.  He  bent  and  with  elaborate  care 
placed  it  on  the  meager  grass-plot  that  edged  the  as- 
phalt. 

"That's  a  safer  road  for  ye  to  travel,  see  that  ye 
keep  to  it,"  he  said  with  scornful  emphasis.  "De- 
mentit  old  body — getting  yer  feet  burned  adventur- 
ing round  on  hot  stone!  ...  Ye  show  about  as 
much  sense  as  a  middle-aged  man  who's  thinking  of 
getting  himself  a  young  wife!" 

The  exclamation  seemed  to  free  his  mind  of  irrita- 
tion, for  when  he  looked  up  his  expression  was  more 
pleasant.  "Mrs.  Mendall,  I'm  not  minded  to  say 
good-by  to  ye  yet.  Just  come  a  step  this  way  till  I 
show  ye  something." 

Mrs.  Mendall  followed  him  to  the  corner,  wonder- 
ing. He  pointed  out,  on  the  next  street,  a  roof  that 
was  almost  hidden  by  tall  trees.  "Ye  see  that  old 
house?  That's  the  old  O'Rourke  place.  I  don't  know 
if  ye  know,  but  there're  two  sisters  live  there  who  in 


MACALLISTER    GETS    HIS    WAY      169 

their  youth  heard  none  of  all  this  talk  of  economic  in- 
dependence, so  when  O'Rourke,  after  mortgaging 
everything  he  possessed,  took  to  his  bed  with  a  stroke, 
they  were  about  to  starve.  O'Rourke  was  a  graceless 
old  gallant,  by  the  way,  and  fonder  of  whisky  and  gay 
ladies  than  he  was  of  his  daughters — the  kind  of  gen- 
tlemen they  used  to  grow  sometimes  in  the  South. 
.  .  .  Weel,  when  things  were  at  the  worst  and  the 
two  ladies  were  distractedly  wondering  whether  they 
could  run  a  typewriter  or  stand  in  a  store,  the  mort- 
gagee^— not  for  sentimental  reasons,  mind  ye,  but  out 
of  honest  respect  for  the  ladies,  and  with  the  intention 
of  holding  the  property  till  it  trebled  in  value  and  get- 
ting rent  for  it  in  the  meantime — this  man  suggested 
to  the  Misses  O'Rourke  that  they  had  a  talent  they  had 
overlooked :  that  they  could  cook.  That  they  could  let 
out  part  of  the  old  house,  and  take  a  few  table  board- 
ers.   For  a  number  of  years  I  rented  their  upper  floor. 

"Weel,  now,  to  come  to  the  point :  they  set  a  table 
for  a  few  who,  like  myself,  appreciate  real  fried 
chicken  with  real  cream  gravy  and  rice  to  grace  it. 
They  make  a  confection  called  'corn-pone/  and  their 
baked  sweet  potatoes  come  straight  from  a  hot  oven. 
.  .  .  Will  ye  honor  me,  Mrs.  Mendall,  by  stepping 
over  there  with  me  for  a  bit  of  lunch  ?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  completely  surprised.  She  had 
heard  the  gossip  that  circled  about  the  youngest  Miss 
O'Rourke  and  Alexander  MacAllister:  that  MacAl- 
lister  had  taken  advantage  of  O'Rourke  and  then  an- 
nexed his  daughter.     She  had  considered  it  aloofly. 


170  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

If  Miss  O'Rourke  had  laid  herself  open  to  criticism,  it 
was  Miss  O'Rourke's  affair,  not  hers.  Margaret  Men- 
dall  had  long  ago  taken  that  step  away  from  the  Puri- 
tan intolerance  upon  which  she  had  been  reared. 

But  that  same  aloofness  made  her  think  with  dis- 
taste of  possibly  meeting  Freda  O'Rourke,  and  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  while  MacAllister  had  been  giving  her 
the  O'Rourke  history  she  had  had  an  intense  feeling  of 
pity  for  Miss  O'Rourke.  It  had  occurred  to  Margaret 
Mendall  that  every  morning,  while  she  awkwardly 
punctuated  a  typewriter  and  essayed  shorthand  in  a 
class  composed  of  young  girls  far  more  apt  than  she, 
that  the  middle-aged  woman  who  had  been  trained  to 
no  profession  but  the  supervision  of  a  household  was 
sadly  handicapped  when  brought  face  to  face  with  some 
of  life's  problems.  It  was  that  realization  which  had 
led  her  to  do  just  what  she  had  been  doing  for  the  last 
two  weeks — secretly  prepare  herself  for  contingencies. 
.  .  .  But  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  enter 
Freda  O'Rourke's  house. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  swiftly  decided  upon  a  tactful  ex- 
cuse, but  when  she  looked  up,  with  the  disarming 
dimple  deep  in  her  cheek,  she  as  swiftly  substituted  an 
acceptance.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  MacAllister,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  lunch  with  you." 

She  had  decided  instantly.  During  his  long  pre- 
amble, MacAllister  had  stood  with  hat  solidly  crown- 
ing his  shock  of  sandy  hair,  but  at  the  finale  he  had 
taken  it  off  with  an  air  curiously  old-fashioned  and 
deferential;  his  manner  was  not  without  charm.    But 


MACALLISTER   GETS    HIS   WAY      171 

it  was  not  his  manner  that  decided  Mrs.  Mendall.  It 
was  his  expression;  the  compelling  steadiness  of  his 
eyes.  He  meant  that,  reluctant  or  not,  she  should 
come.  It  would  be  the  height  of  unwisdom  to  refuse. 
MacAllister  resumed  his  hat.  "We'll  just  step  over 
there  then — out  of  the  sun,"  he  said  quietly. 


XXVII 

AN  UNCONVENTIONAL   PROCEDURE 

THE  O'Rourke  home  was  a  distinct  surprise  to 
Mrs.  Mendall. 
She  had  never  been  on  this  street  that  was  given 
over  to  unkempt  houses  placarded  with  signs  of  "fur- 
nished rooms."  t)nly  a  few  years  before  this  had  been 
one  of  the  beautiful  residence  streets  of  the  city.  But 
the  expansion  of  the  business  section  had  rapidly 
changed  its  character.  The  old  families  had  flown 
westward — with  the  exception  of  the  O'Rourkes  and 
possibly  one  or  two  others. 

Yet  in  spite  of  its  surroundings  the  O'Rourke  place 
retained  its  gentility.  It  occupied  nearly  a  quarter  of 
a  block,  and  was  distinguished  by  the  most  beautiful 
trees  Mrs.  Mendall  had  yet  seen  in  Laclasse — tall  elms 
that  reminded  her  of  her  own  New  England  town. 
The  house  stood  high  above  the  street  on  one  of  the 
natural  knolls  that  had  abounded  in  Laclasse  before  the 
leveling  process  had  deprived  the  town  of  one  of  its 
distinguishing  characteristics.  It  was  almost  hidden 
from  the  street  by  a  thick  hedge  and  shrubbery,  and 
was  approached  by  a  zigzag  flight  of  stone  steps. 
When  MacAllister  had  assisted  her  up  the  steps,  Mrs. 
Mendall  saw  with  delight  that  the  terraces  and  sunken 

172 


AN  UNCONVENTIONAL  PROCEDURE  173 

garden  below  were  natural  inequalities  made  beautiful. 
There  was  a  bright  flower  garden  in  the  hollow  in 
which  flamed  many  of  her  favorites. 

And  the  house  with  its  steep  gables,  high  narrow 
windows  and  paintless  aspect  stirred  her  to  homesick- 
ness. There  was  plenty  of  honeysuckle  nestled  against 
its  old-fashioned  boarding.  The  house  was  old,  very 
old  for  Laclasse,  approaching  decrepitude;  but  it  had 
such  a  familiar  face,  and  all  about  were  the  equally 
familiar  indications  of  loving  care;  not  a  gardener's 
care — a  woman's  care.  Mrs.  Mendall  forgot  her  an- 
noyance at  being  forced  into  Freda  O'Rourke's  house. 
"What  a  beautiful  old  place !"  she  exclaimed.  And  on 
reaching  the  porch  with  its  pent  roof,  she  stopped  again 
to  admire.  "We  look  right  over  all  that  ugliness  in  the 
street  below,  straight  into  the  heart  of  the  city !" 

"I  was  thinking  ye'd  like  it,"  MacAllister  said,  with 
his  rare  look  of  satisfaction.  "Miss  Freda's  a  great 
lover  of  flowers." 

The  mention  of  Miss  O'Rourke  reminded  Mrs.  Men- 
dall that  she  was  doing  an  unconventional  thing.  Freda 
O'Rourke  was  not  considered  beyond  the  pale;  she  was 
simply  regarded  doubtfully.  Laclasse  society  passed 
her  by  on  the  other  side,  but  that  was  mainly  because 
she  no  longer  had  the  money  to  attract  them.  Still  it 
was  hardly  the  thing  for  her  to  lunch  alone  with  Alex- 
ander MacAllister  and,  of  all  odd  places,  in  Freda 
O'Rourke's  house.  But  she  could  not  afford  to  offend 
MacAllister.  And,  after  all,  what  harm  could  the  ex- 
perience do  her? 


174  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

So  Mrs.  Mendall  courageously  followed  MacAllister 
into  a  wide  hall  which  was  as  unmodern  as  the  outside 
of  the  house.  But  it  was  exquisitely  neat,  and  there 
were  flowers  and  greenery  at  the  windows.  On  the 
right  was  a  room  with  many  books  and  a  spacious 
desk-table,  the  O'Rourke  sisters'  living-room  probably. 
The  room  into  which  MacAllister  brought  her,  Mrs. 
Mendall  guessed,  had  been  the  O'Rourke  drawing- 
room.  It  and  the  room  connected  with  it  were  set  with 
tables.  Though  courageous,  Mrs.  Mendall  was  re- 
lieved to  find  that  there  was  no  one  lunching  in  either 
of  the  rooms.  A  colored  waitress  in  snowy  white  was 
clearing  the  tables. 

In  the  bay  window  to  which  MacAllister  led  her  was 
a  table  set  for  one,  and  with  the  accomplished  house- 
keeper's eye  for  such  details,  Mrs.  Mendall  noticed  that 
its  linen  was  spotless  and  of  good  quality.  The  silver 
also  was  good. 

"My  luncheon's  ordered,  Celia,"  MacAllister  said  to 
the  waitress.  "I'm  a  bit  late,  but  Miss  O'Rourke'll  for- 
give that.  Just  ye  set  another  place  here,  now,  and 
don't  ye  forget  my  bottle  of  Scotch  and  the  seltzer." 

Their  lunch  was  brought  promptly :  some  cool  fruit, 
and  then  the  fried  chicken  of  which  MacAllister  had 
spoken.  He  had  not  praised  Miss  O'Rourke's  cook- 
ing unduly;  the  chicken  was  delicious,  the  rice  was 
snowy,  and  the  corn-pone,  a  new  experience  to  Mrs. 
Mendall,  was  very  good. 

"How  beautifully  everything  is  prepared,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  remarked. 


AN  UNCONVENTIONAL  PROCEDURE  175 

MacAllister  knew  perfectly  well  what  had  been  pass- 
ing in  her  mind.  She  was  making  the  best  of  what  she 
considered  an  unconventional  situation,  too  completely 
fortified  by  her  own  aloofness  even  to  indulge  in  criti- 
cism. It  was  women  such  as  she  who  made  life  diffi- 
cult for  Freda  O'Rourke. 

MacAllister  liked  Mrs.  Mendall;  she  had  sterling 
qualities,  and  she  was  a  good  little  fighter,  but  it  was 
his  opinion  that  Freda  could  teach  this  little  New  Eng- 
lander  the  A  B  C  of  real  womanliness.  Even  Marie, 
girl  though  she  was,  had  shown  a  broader  understand- 
ing. It  was  perfectly  plain  that  Mrs.  Mendall  had 
heard  all  Laclasse  had  to  say  about  Freda  and  himself, 
and  that  she  sat  with  skirts  well  drawn  away  from  it 
all.  MacAllister  was  taking  a  certain  sardonic  satis- 
faction in  his  venture. 

"Will  ye  have  a  bit  of  Scotch  with  me,  Mrs.  Men- 
dall ?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said  with  precision. 

"Ye  don't  smoke,  either?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"Yer  right — it's  an  abominable  habit.    But  may  I  ?" 

Mrs.  Mendall's  well-marked  brows  lifted.  She  did 
not  like  his  faintly  teasing  manner.  "Why,  certainly. 
I  have  no  objection  to  anybody's  smoking — man  or 
woman — if  they  wish  to  do  so." 

"That's  your  attitude  to  life  in  general,  isn't  it,  Mrs. 
Mendall?  What  doesn't  touch  ye  doesn't  matter  par- 
ticularly." 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  surprised.    She  had  not  supposed 


176  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

that  MacAllister  had  troubled  to  analyze  her.  "Per- 
haps/' She  dimpled  into  a  smile.  "I  think  I  am  about 
as  set  in  my  ways  as  you  are." 

MacAllister  surprised  her  again.  "So  ye  think  I'm 
hard,  do  ye  ?"  he  asked  shrewdly. 

"I  didn't  know  /  was,"  she  returned  brightly.  She 
could  not  imagine  why  MacAllister  had  been  so  deter- 
mined to  secure  her  society,  but,  whatever  his  reason, 
she  intended  that  the  luncheon  hour  should  pass 
smoothly. 

He  chose  to  be  sardonically  serious.  "I  hope  ye'll 
never  have  my  reputation,  Mrs.  Mendall.  As  ye  know, 
Laclasse  has  no  very  good  opinion  of  me.  I'll  grant 
I  have  a  nasty  temper,  but  they  say  a  deal  worse  of 
me :  that  I'm  hard  as  steel  and  as  cold  as  stone ;  that  I 
drive  a  close  bargain  with  man  or  woman ;  that  I've  got 
no  morals  to  speak  of;  that  I'll  even  take  advantage  of 
a  woman.  .  .  .  That's  a  pretty  reputation  to 
have,  isn't  it?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  thought  that  in  the  main  Laclasse  was 
right.  But  she  had  seen  a  saving  grace,  and  her  tact 
instantly  put  it  forward.  "They  have  never  seen  you 
with  Marie,  as  I  have,  or  they  would  alter  their  view," 
she  said  prettily. 

She  appeared  to  have  touched  a  sensitive  nerve. 
"Thank  God,  Marie's  got  no  such  opinion  of  me !"  he 
said  with  genuine  feeling.  He  flushed  as  warmly  as 
any  lover.  "I'll  tell  ye  the  reason  the  town's  got  such 
an  opinion,  Mrs.  Mendall :  it's  just  that  any  man  who 
carries  about  with  him  hurt  and  regret  and  the  like  is 


AN  UNCONVENTIONAL  PROCEDURE  177 

not  good  company.  I've  got  no  great  liking  for  people ; 
if  ye  don't  like  people  they  don't  like  ye — that's  com- 
mon law.  And,  in  addition,  I've  made  my  money  by 
fighting,  not  praying.  If  ye  fight,  somebody's  like  to 
get  hurt.  Every  man  who  makes  a  million  has  a  cer- 
tain reputation  handed  to  him ;  it  was  decided  long  ago 
that  he  could  never  pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle. 
Some  of  us  kick  against  the  pricks — I've  always 
thought  best  to  take  it  quietly.  If  I  ever  did  a  good 
deed,  I  did  it  on  the  sly." 

Mrs.  Mendall  felt  that  she  was  skating  over  rather 
thin  ice.  She  chose  a  safe  topic.  "I  have  been  struck 
by  Marie's  accurate  judgment  of  people.  I  think  she 
is  very  keen  in  some  ways." 

MacAllister  was  instantly  diverted.  "She  has  plenty 
of  character,"  he  said  decidedly.  Then  he  remarked 
with  customary  unexpectedness:  "I've  gathered  that 
yer  husband  has  no  liking  for  the  pupil  I've  put  upon 
him." 

Mrs.  Mendall  flushed  brightly.  Still,  there  was  no 
use  trying  to  palliate  the  fact.  "Carl  has  his  peculiar- 
ities— he  likes  very  few  people.  But  he  would  never  be 
anything  but  polite  to  Marie.  And  he  is  a  conscien- 
tious teacher ;  he  will  not  neglect  her  drawing  lessons." 
She  spoke  with  no  little  dignity. 

MacAllister  was  satisfied  by  the  genuineness  of  her 
speech.  He  was  secretly  relieved.  When  he  had  placed 
Marie  with  the  Mendalls  he  had  given  no  thought  to 
Carl  Mendall.  But  of  late  he  had  been  uneasy;  Men- 
dall was  an  attractive  young  fellow.    Marie  had  given 


178  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

him  her  opinion  of  Mendall;  he  wanted  to  be  assured 
that  Mendall  had  no  liking  for  Marie;  a  jealously  in- 
clined woman  like  Mrs.  Mendall  was  not  likely  to  be 
deceived.  One  reason  he  had  brought  Mrs.  Mendall 
to  lunch  with  him  was  to  probe  her  on  this  point. 

There  were  several  other  things  he  wanted  to  know, 
so  he  continued.  "Your  husband  certainly  has  talent ; 
he  has  a  right  to  a  few  peculiarities.  ...  I  met 
Mrs.  Bagsby  coming  back  up  Broad  Street  this  noon — 
I  judged  from  a  sitting.  Is  her  portrait  nearly  fin- 
ished?" MacAllister  was  thinking  that  if  he  could  do 
nothing  with  Bagsby  in  the  school  matter,  he  could  at 
least  persuade  him  to  pay  well  for  the  portrait. 

"Yes.  And  I  think  people  will  like  it.  She  is  a 
graceful  subject,"  Mrs.  Mendall  said,  with  the  proper 
degree  of  enthusiasm. 

"She's  a  particularly  well- featured  woman." 

"She  is  beautiful,"  Mrs.  Mendall  answered,  in  the 
same  well-poised  way.  "I  wish  Carl  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  paint  more  portraits." 

"If  there  were  more  of  Mrs.  Bagsby's  brand  of 
vanity  about,  he  would  not  lack  for  sitters,"  MacAl- 
lister returned  dryly.  "That  was  a  foolish  marriage  of 
Bagsby's,  if  ever  there  was  one.  .  .  .  He's  twenty 
years  her  senior,"  he  added,  as  if  Bagsby's  mistake 
touched  him  personally.  His  face  had  clouded,  as  it 
had  when  he  had  rebuked  the  beetle. 

"It  could  hardly  be  called  a  wise  marriage,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  returned  equably,  though  she  had  begun  to 
pale.     She  had  a  sudden  jealous  certainty  that  Mrs. 


AN  UNCONVENTIONAL  PROCEDURE  179 

Bagsby  had  been  to  her  house  during  her  absence.  Her 
husband  must  have  known  she  was  coming,  and  he  had 
not  told  her.  MacAllister  evidently  knew  how  matters 
stood — perhaps  he  thought  he  was  doing  her  a  kindness 
by  telling  her. 

"There's  a  deal  of  unwisdom  perpetrated  in  the 
name  of  marriage,"  MacAllister  continued  gloomily. 
"I  have  little  use  for  the  institution." 

The  hurt  she  was  feeling  made  Mrs.  Mendall  a  little 
sharp.  "I  don't  believe  it.  I  think  you  have  a  tre- 
mendous respect  for  the  'institution,'  as  you  call  it. 
You  are  simply  a  good  deal  afraid  of  it." 

MacAllister  eyed  her  keenly.  "And  ye' re  not  a  trifle 
appalled  by  it  occasionally?  I  should  think  anybody 
who's  married  would  be." 

"No.  But  like  any  other  venture,  it  has  to  be  han- 
dled sensibly.  In  a  business  venture  you  always  make 
allowance  for  contingencies,  don't  you?  You  safe- 
guard your  venture  ?  You  put  up  a  good  fight  ?  Well, 
marriage  is  full  of  contingencies — no  venture  more 
so."  The  thought  of  Mrs.  Bagsby  always  made  Mrs. 
Mendall  want  to  fight. 

MacAllister's  brows  lifted.  Her  answer  interested 
him.  "So  that  is  yer  view  of  marriage,  is  it?  .  .  . 
Weel,  I'm  not  one  of  those  who  takes  the  attitude  to- 
ward marriage  of  'nothing  ventured  nothing  gained.'  " 

"Perhaps  experience  has  made  you  cautious." 

It  slipped  out  before  she  thought,  and  for  a  moment 
she  was  terrified  at  her  plain  reference  to  his  early 


180  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

marriage.    She  saw  his  face  change ;  he  looked  down. 
But  his  answer,  when  it  came,  was  curiously  subdued : 
"Experience  counts  awfu'  little  against  desire." 
He  appeared  to  be  pondering  some  immediate  diffi- 
culty, and  not  his  early  tragedy. 


XXVIII 

THE  QUESTIONABLE  WOMAN 

MRS.  MENDALL  and  MacAllister  were  inter- 
rupted at  this  moment. 

A  woman  had  come  into  the  room,  silently  and 
swiftly,  pausing  when  she  saw  them;  a  tall  woman, 
well-formed  and  becomingly  gowned.  In  spite  of  her 
abundance  of  snow-white  hair,  she  was  certainly  not 
forty.  Her  unlined  face  had  warm  tints,  color  in  lips 
and  cheeks,  a  sweep  of  black  brows  above  dark  eyes. 
Her  eyes  were  dominant,  her  mouth  firm,  a  woman  of 
arresting  personality.  Mrs.  Mendall  had  never  seen 
Freda  O'Rourke,  yet  she  knew  at  once  that  this  was 
she. 

MacAllister  turned  quickly.  "Freda !"  he  said,  ris- 
ing. "I  was  intending  to  ask  for  ye — I'm  glad  ye  hap- 
pened in.  Ye' re  two  ladies  should  know  each  other. 
Mrs.  Mendall,  ye've  heard  me  speak  of  Miss  Freda 
O'Rourke." 

Miss  O'Rourke  came  forward  and  offered  her  hand. 
She  did  not  smile;  Mrs.  Mendall  received  the  impres- 
sion that  she  rarely  smiled.  Though  her  manner  was 
grave,  it  was  also  gracious.    "I  am  certainly  glad  to 

181 


182  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

meet  you,  Mrs.  Mendall.  .  .  .  Has  Celia  served 
you  as  she  should?    You  are  later  than  usual,  Alex." 

Her  dark  eyes  had  swept  Mrs.  Mendall,  then  rested 
on  him,  and  to  Mrs.  Mendall  there  was  something 
quietly  possessive  in  her  manner. 

"We've  been  so  well  served  that  we've  sat  a  bit  over 
our  coffee,  having  fallen  upon  the  subject  of  greatest 
import  in  the  universe — marriage.  Ye  are  a  feminist 
and  a  bit  of  a  superwoman,  Freda;  ye  have  decided 
views  on  the  subject:  ye  should  have  been  here,  for 
both  Mrs.  Mendall  and  I  need  enlightenment  on  the 
subject." 

MacAllister's  delivery  was  dry.  Freda  O'Rourke 
studied  him  gravely.  A  long  and  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  Alexander  MacAllister  had  taught  her  his 
moods ;  to-day  he  was  at  his  worst ;  he  had  been  at  his 
worst  for  several  days.  It  was  not  simply  worry  over 
the  plant  that  made  him  restless  and  irritable.  She 
knew  what  had  set  him  to  talking  about  marriage.  His 
mind  was  on  the  subject  these  days  to  the  exclusion  of 
almost  everything  else. 

She  made  no  reply,  and  MacAllister  continued: 
"Mrs.  Mendall,  here,  regards  marriage  as  a  venture  to 
which  one  should  apply  business  methods.  Ye,  Freda, 
consider  the  combination  of  friendship  and  the  usual 
attraction  as  the  only  safe  basis  for  the  contract.  Ye 
are  in  favor  of  careful  consideration  before  marriage, 
and  a  dissolution  of  the  contract  in  case  of  incompati- 
bility.   Ye  are  an  individualist.    Mrs.  Mendall's  is  the 


THE    QUESTIONABLE    WOMAN       183 

'to  have  and  to  hold'  idea — to  have  and  to  hold  in  spite 
of  everything.    .    .    .    Now,  which  of  us  all  is  right?" 

"I  don't  see  that  you  have  made  clear  what  your  atti- 
tude is,"  Freda  said. 

"Mrs.  Mendall  will  tell  ye — she  has  just  told  me: 
that  I'm  afraid  of  marriage — to  the  point  of  cow- 
ardice." 

"We  are  none  of  us  right,  probably,"  Mrs.  Mendall 
said ;  "so  we  won't  talk  about  it.  .  .  .  It  is  time  I 
went  home." 

She  rose  and  gathered  up  her  gloves  and  hand-bag. 
In  spite  of  Freda  O'Rourke's  very  evident  charm,  she 
shrank  from  any  but  the  most  casual  speech  with  her. 
Mrs.  Mendall  had  all  of  the  possessively  jealous  wom- 
an's distrust  of  a  woman  with  undoubted  physical  at- 
traction. She  had  not  wanted  to  believe  the  gossip 
she  had  heard,  but  Freda's  beauty  combined  with  her 
avowedly  advanced  ideas  left  no  room  for  doubt;  she 
and  MacAllister  knew  each  other  well.  Laclasse  was 
right. 

Freda  O'Rourke  had  been  studying  her,  and  now  she 
smiled.  "I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Mendall  would  be  preju- 
diced against  anything  I  might  say  on  the  subject." 
There  was  a  touch  of  mockery  in  her  eyes. 

Inwardly  Mrs.  Mendall  was  taken  aback.  Miss 
O'Rourke  was  evidently  a  good  observer.  She  did  not 
know  that  her  uncontrollable  shrinking  had  been  ap- 
parent. MacAllister  also  was  watching  her  from  be- 
neath his  heavy  brows.     "I  am  afraid  I  am  thinking 


184  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

more  of  my  forsaken  family  than  I  am  of  how  the 
world  should  marry,"  she  declared  brightly.  "Mr. 
MacAllister,  I  hope  you  have  not  allowed  me  to  miss 
my  car?,, 

"I  have.  I  thought  it  a  deal  better  for  ye  to  eat  yer 
lunch  in  leisure,  and  then  let  me  take  ye  out.  If  Miss 
O'Rourke  will  permit  me  to  use  her  telephone,  I'll  have 
the  car  around  in  a  few  minutes.  .  .  .  That's  the 
best  way,  isn't  it?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  felt  again  that  she  was  coerced.  She 
was  certain  now  that  MacAllister  had  brought  her  to 
the  house  purposely  to  meet  Freda  O'Rourke,  and 
under  her  smiling  exterior  she  was  thoroughly  an- 
noyed. She  remembered  now  that  MacAllister  had 
said  she  ought  to  talk  to  some  of  the  women  in  Laclasse 
who  were  "doing  for  themselves."  She  had  no  in- 
tention of  knowing  such  as  Freda  O'Rourke. 

But  she  must  make  the  best  of  it,  and  take  care  that 
she  was  not  caught  in  the  same  manner  again.  "If  you 
are  sure  it  will  not  be  inconvenient,"  she  said  pleas- 
antly. 

"No.    I  am  going  out  yer  way." 

"The  telephone  is  in  the  library — wouldn't  you 
rather  wait  there?"  Freda  suggested. 

Mrs.  Mendall  thanked  her  and  they  crossed  to  the 
room  Mrs.  Mendall  had  noticed  when  they  came  in. 
It  was  a  library  in  the  right  sense,  well-lighted,  and  the 
walls  book-shelved  half-way  to  the  ceiling,  an  unusual 
library  for  a  home. 

Mrs.  Mendall  saw  the  books  and  litter  of  magazines 


THE    QUESTIONABLE    WOMAN       185 

at  a  glance,  but  not  more  quickly  than  she  noticed  the 
painting  that  hung  over  the  mantel.  It  was  one  of 
Mendall's  paintings,  one  they  had  sold  to  MacAllister. 
Over  the  book-shelves  was  another.  It  was  something 
of  a  shock  to  see  them  there ;  like  meeting  a  near  rela- 
tion in  surroundings  that  did  credit  to  neither  of  them. 

After  one  glance  Mrs.  Mendall  averted  her  eyes,  and 
possibly  because  of  her  expression,  Freda  made  no 
comment  on  her  new  possessions.  Instead,  while  Mac- 
Allister telephoned,  she  talked  of  the  books.  "My 
grandfather  collected  many  of  them.  My  father  added 
to  the  collection,  and  I  have  done  my  humble  best — 
that  is  why  we  have  so  many.  Some  of  them  are  inter- 
esting. Nearly  all  of  the  books  on  this  shelf  are  auto- 
graphed by  well-known  people  in  my  grandfather's 
day.  My  grandfather  wrote  a  history  of  Virginia,  and 
several  historical  novels.  My  father  also  wrote  before 
his  health  failed.,, 

"Was  your  family  home  in  Virginia?"  Mrs.  Mendall 
asked. 

"One  of  the  oldest  in  the  state." 

"And  what  brought  you  west?" 

"My  father's  mistaken  idea  that  he  would  make 
money  here." 

"He  is  an  invalid,  is  he  not?"  Mrs.  Mendall  asked. 

"He  has  been  bedridden  for  the  last  six  years." 

"And  that  has  made  it  hard  for  you,"  Mrs.  Mendall 
said,  with  a  momentary  return  to  the  sympathy  she 
had  felt  when  MacAllister  had  given  her  the  O'Rourke 
history.    She  spoke  gently. 


186  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

Freda  O'Rourke  turned  away  to  finger  a  magazine 
on  the  table.  "We  have  had  our  struggle."  Then  she 
said,  a  little  impulsively :  "Did  you  notice  my  garden  ? 
Are  you  interested  in  gardening?" 

"I  love  it ;  but  I  have  no  such  garden  as  you  have. 
Mine  is  just  a  little  scrap  of  a  garden  on  our  terrace." 
She  had  relaxed  unconsciously  under  Freda's  charm  of 
manner. 

"I  have  a  wonderful  book  on  the  flowers  and  trees 
that  do  best  in  this  climate — wouldn't  you  like  to  take 
it?"  Freda  offered. 

"I  would,  if  I  had  a  moment  to  read  it.  But  I  am 
too  terribly  busy." 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  frozen  again.  If  she  borrowed, 
she  must  return,  and  she  had  no  intention  of  seeing 
anything  more  of  Freda  O'Rourke.  It  was  the  barrier 
a  woman  knows  so  well  how  to  erect  between  herself 
and  the  questionable  woman. 

But  if  Freda  realized,  she  showed  no  sign.  She 
turned  to  MacAllister,  who,  whether  purposely  or  not, 
had  taken  some  time  over  his  telephoning.  "Did  you 
get  your  car,  Alex?"  she  asked  equably. 

"Yes,  Townley's  bringing  it.  It'll  be  along  in  a 
minute." 

"We  can  go  down,  then,  and  meet  it,"  Mrs.  Mendall 
suggested. 

"As  ye  like."  He  glanced  from  one  woman  to  the 
other.    Mrs.  Mendall's  attitude  was  evident  enough. 

She  thanked  Freda  without  offering  her  hand.  "It 
has  been  a  pleasure — seeing  your  garden — I  am  grate- 


THE    QUESTIONABLE    WOMAN       187 

ful  to  Mr.  MacAllister."  Her  bright  glance  was  for 
both  of  then,  and  then  she  tripped  out. 

MacAllister  lingered  a  moment.  When  Mrs.  Men- 
dall  was  lost  in  the  hall,  he  put  his  hands  on  Freda's 
shoulders  and  looked  into  her  clouded  eyes.  "I'm 
sorry,  Freda,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  think  she  would 
prove  quite  such  a  damned  little  prude !" 

She  brightened  under  his  look.  "Oh,  she'll  learn 
better.  ...  It  doesn't  matter — you  meant  well, 
Alex.    Don't  let  her  suspect  now  that  you  are  angry." 


XXIX 

A  BIT  OF  BAD  NEWS 

MRS.  MENDALL  had  time  to  feel  thoroughly 
uncomfortable  before  MacAllister  came  down 
the  steps  of  the  O'Rourke  house  and  silently  helped  her 
into  his  car.  She  was  upheld,  however,  by  a  feeling  of 
indignation ;  no  one  had  a  right  to  force  such  a  woman 
as  Freda  O'Rourke  upon  her.  She  stiffened  under  her 
sense  of  offense. 

Still  it  was  a  relief  when  MacAllister  spoke  without 
any  appearance  of  anger.  "I'm  going  a  bit  round- 
about, but  ye'll  not  mind  that.  I'll  get  ye  home  before 
the  street-car  would,  in  any  case."  He  looked  at  her 
with  a  gleam  of  grim  amusement  in  his  eyes.  "I'll 
bump  ye  over  some  dirt  roads  before  our  ride's  over, 
Mrs.  Mendall ;  but  at  present  there's  no  need  for  ye  to 
sit  so  uncompromisingly  upright.  .  .  .  There's  a 
comfortable  back  to  yer  seat,  remember." 

"I'm  unused  to  motoring,"  she  said,  relaxing. 

"It's  a  habit  one  acquires  with  great  ease." 

Mrs.  Mendall  felt  at  a  loss  for  conversation.  She 
certainly  could  not  talk  of  the  O'Rourke  establishment. 
They  rode  in  silence  until  they  reached  the  boulevard 
and  then  turned  southward.     MacAllister  was,  as  he 

188 


A   BIT    OF   BAD   NEWS  189 

had  said,  taking  a  roundabout  way;  he  was  circling 
South  Laclasse  instead  of  going  through  it,  which  was 
the  shortest  road  to  the  Mendall  house. 

MacAllister  had  a  disagreeable  bit  of  news  to  give 
Mrs.  Mendall.  It  had  been  one  of  his  reasons  for 
wanting  to  take  her  home,  but  he  did  not  want  to  ven- 
ture upon  it  while  he  was  angry.  He  had  several  ways 
of  ridding  himself  of  his  frequent  fits  of  irritation,  and 
one  was  to  talk  steadily.    He  began  to  talk. 

"Ye  can't  guess  anything  what  it  was  like  hereabout 
when  I  was  a  boy,  Mrs.  Mendall.  All  this  we're  trav- 
eling was  just  rolling  prairie.  Not  a  tree;  not  a  roof. 
Sixteenth  Street,  that's  the  center  of  down-town  now, 
limited  Laclasse.  That  was  no  more  than  thirty-six 
years  ago,  or  thereabouts,  and  here  we  are  now  with 
streets  numbering  westward  to  Fifty-second,  and  miles 
to  the  north  and  south.  .  .  .  We  lived  on  Six- 
teenth— about  where  the  City  Bank  is  now — and  the 
whole  prairie  was  our  back  yard.  Sixteenth  was  ankle 
deep  with  dust  in  the  summer,  and  knee  deep  with  mud 
in  the  winter — every  street  in  town  was.  One  of  my 
first  memories  is  getting  stuck  in  the  mud  and  being 
hauled  out  by  my  stepmother.  I  had  new  clothes  on — 
that  earned  me  the  first  licking  I  remember  getting. 
The  Indians  walked  up  and  down  Broad  Street  in  that 
day;  it  was  no  great  surprise  for  any  housewife  in 
town  to  find  an  Indian  sitting  in  her  kitchen  when  she 
came  into  it,  and  she  fed  him,  and  quickly — unless  her 
husband  happened  to  be  about.  .  .  .  It's  certainly 
a  changed  place !" 


190  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"And  I  suppose  you  love  it,"  Mrs.  Mendall  said,  in 
tones  that  meant  "How  can  you?" 

"Yes,  I  love  it!"  MacAllister  returned  with  a  flash 
of  feeling.  "I  love  the  very  breath  of  it!  And  it's 
not  just  because  I've  put  up  my  fight  here  and  won  out. 
It's  the  flesh  and  bone  of  me.  I've  gone  east — I  often 
go  east — and  I've  gone  abroad,  but  I  don't  draw  a  free 
breath  until  I'm  back  on  the  prairie  again.  ...  I 
mind  when  I  was  just  old  enough  to  climb  to  a  horse's 
back,  riding  all  over  where  we  are  now,  dreaming  I 
owned  the  whole  of  it.  I  was  always  for  acquiring, 
and  not  just  to  hold,  but  for  the  sake  of  developing.  It 
seemed  to  me  it  would  be  a  big  thing  to  build  up  a 
town  and  make  the  prairie  feed  it.  .  .  .  But  for 
a  few  years  I  got  diverted  from  the  thing  I  really 
wanted  to  do.  My  father  was  a  thrifty  Scot;  when  I 
was  fifteen  he  put  me  in  his  store,  and  I  didn't  like  it. 
Besides,  my  stepmother  was  a  bit  too  much  for  me.  So 
I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  fend  for  myself.  I  mind,  be- 
fore I  ran  away,  I  deeded  the  only  bit  of  property  I 
owned,  my  scraggly  bronco  which  I'd  acquired  of  an 
Indian  for  the  price  of  a  drink,  to  Bagsby.  Bagsby's 
always  been  something  of  an  idealist;  he  felt  he  could 
improve  that  bronco,  and  I  wanted  three  dollars  to 
add  to  my  little  hoard.  I  hated  to  part  with  the 
bronco ;  I  rather  liked  him  for  his  devilish  ways.  Some 
things  he  did  were  unusual — when  he'd  balk  he'd  sit 
down  on  his  haunches  like  a  dog,  and  the  world's  com- 
ing to  an  end  wouldn't  have  moved  him.  Bagsby 
didn't  get  much  chance  to  reform  him,  though,  for  a 


A   BIT    OF    BAD    NEWS  191 

few  days  after  he'd  bought  him  the  bronco  sat  down 
on  the  Union  Pacific  track  and  that  ended  the  bronco 
— and  very  nearly  ended  Bagsby,  too.  .  .  .  I've 
always  maintained  that  the  bronco  mourned  me  to  the 
extent  of  committing  suicide." 

MacAllister  had  talked  himself  back  into  the  past 
and  had  forgotten  his  anger  in  doing  so,  though  his 
reminiscences  only  led  him  into  restless  dissatisfaction 
with  himself,  a  mood  that  had  been  upon  him  since  the 
morning,  a  few  days  before,  when  he  had  carried  his 
rage  over  his  destroyed  plant  to  Marie  and  had  left 
her  with  feelings  deeply  stirred.  He  had  been  living 
over  the  past,  and  it  had  not  made  him  happy. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  watched  his  changes  of  expression 
curiously.  She  also  had  forgotten  Freda  O'Rourke. 
His  talk  of  the  past  had  taken  her  back  to  her  first  rec- 
ollections of  him.  She  was  thinking  of  her  school- 
mate. 

When  MacAllister  looked  at  her  he  caught  her  sob- 
erly wide-eyed  expression  and  remarked  abruptly :  "Do 
ye  know,  when  ye  look  like  that,  ye  set  me  to  wonder- 
ing where  Fve  seen  ye  before.  Ye  'mind  me  to-day 
of  somebody  I  can't  place.  I  am  wondering  what  yer 
first  name  may  be?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  so  startled  that  she  answered  at 
once :  "My  name  is  Margaret." 

"That's  curious.  I  decided  that  it  was,  and  for  no 
other  reason  than  it's  a  big  name  for  a  wee  woman, 
and  being  little  ye'd  be  sure  to  have  it." 

Mrs.  Mendall  held  her  breath  for  a  moment,  for  she 


192  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

remembered  with  such  distinctness  that  he  had  made 
the  same  remark  when  Eugenie  had  presented  her  to 
him  twenty  years  before.  He  had  swept  her  school- 
mate completely  off  her  feet,  lifted  her  up  and  kissed 
her,  quite  oblivious  of  the  shocked  little  girl  who  was 
backing  out  of  the  room.  He  had  said  then,  "Eh,  but 
that's  a  big  name  for  a  wee  woman !"    It  was  uncanny. 

But  MacAllister  passed  on  to  something  else.  "I 
suppose  I've  reached  the  age  for  fancies.  .  .  .  It's 
generally  conceded  that  a  woman's  years  of  oddest  fan- 
cies are  from  forty  to  fifty.  They're  man's  too,  I 
think.  I'm  convinced  it's  then  he  is  most  subject  to 
infatuations.  He's  tried  out  most  things  by  then;  if 
he's  anything  of  an  accomplisher,  he's  accomplished 
by  then.  If  he  was  born  with  a  good  constitution  and 
has  lived  fairly  sensibly,  he  feels  as  young  as  ever  he 
did — he  certainly  feels  more  forceful.  And  yet  he  re- 
members the  years  that  are  behind  him.  Perhaps  that's 
the  reason  he  loves  the  sight  of  youth,  more  than  ever 
in  his  life  before,  the  sight  and  touch  and  the  atmos- 
phere of  it — the  feminine  atmosphere  in  particular,  I 
mean.  I  suppose  that's  why  so  many  men  just  past 
forty  do  what  poor  Bagsby  did,  marry  a  young  wife." 
He  spoke  with  more  than  a  touch  of  irritation. 

"I  should  say  that  a  man  was  equally  subject  to  in- 
fatuations at  any  age,"  Mrs.  Mendall  remarked  a  little 
dryly.  As  usual  she  was  thinking  of  her  husband.  Ex- 
cept for  her  momentary  stir  over  Freda  O'Rourke,  she 
had  been  thinking  steadily  of  him — and  of  Mrs. 
Bagsby. 


A   BIT    OF    BAD    NEWS  193 

His  reference  to  Bagsby  had  reminded  MacAllister 
of  a  disagreeable  duty.  "Speaking  of  Bagsby  makes 
me  think  that  I  heard  a  bit  of  news  this  morning  that 
won't  please  ye,  though  I  think  it's  too  early  to  begin 
worrying  over  it.  The  best  thing's  to  consider  how 
it  can  be  prevented." 

Mrs.  Mendall's  apprehensions  seized  upon  the  truth 
at  once.  "Not  that  Carl  is  going  to  be  dropped  from 
the  schools?" 

"So  I  heard.  .  .  .  But  that  doesn't  mean  the 
thing's  accomplished.    Far  from  it." 

MacAllister  added  his  word  of  encouragement 
quickly,  for  she  grew  very  pale.  He  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment that  she  was  going  to  faint.  "I'd  not  be  worrying 
over  the  matter  if  I  were  ye,"  he  advised  decidedly. 
"I  may  as  well  tell  ye — I've  had  a  word  with  Bagsby, 
and  I'm  afraid  I  can't  move  him.  But  there  are  other 
wires  to  pull.  There's  nothing  ever  gained  by  being 
panic-stricken." 

MacAllister  liked  the  way  in  which  she  gathered  her- 
self together.  She  met  his  eyes  bravely.  "I  do  not 
blame  Mr.  Bagsby,  Mr.  MacAllister;  but  I  think  it 
would  be  a  terribly  foolish  thing  for  him  to  turn 
against  my  husband  now.  It  is  the  worst  thing  he 
could  do  for  his — for  his  family." 

"Any  one  with  a  particle  of  penetration  would  think 
the  same." 

"I  do  not  feel  as — as  helpless  as  I  should  have  felt 
several  weeks  ago,"  Mrs.  Mendall  said  a  little  un- 
steadily. 


194  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

"Yer  husband's  not  going  out  if  I  can  prevent  it, 
Mrs.  Mendall." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  Her  lips  quivered,  then  set. 
"There  will  be  some  way  out." 

"That's  right;  that's  the  spirit!"  MacAllister  de- 
clared awkwardly. 

He  was  immensely  relieved  that  she  had  not  wept. 
He  was  afraid  that,  with  Bagsby  against  him,  it  would 
be  no  easy  matter  to  keep  Mendall  in  the  schools,  but 
he  did  not  mean  to  tell  Mrs.  Mendall  so.  She  looked 
very  like  a  terrified  child  when  she  lost  color — blue 
about  the  lips  and  beneath  the  eyes.  He  had  no  great 
opinion  of  Carl  Mendall,  but  it  was  Mrs.  Bagsby  whom 
he  blamed  for  the  whole  affair.  Mendall  was  a  mere 
man ;  what  could  you  expect  ? 

MacAllister  did  not  want  to  talk  any  more  about  the 
matter,  and  Mrs.  Mendall  rose  immeasurably  in  his 
estimation,  when  she  began  to  talk  of  other  things. 
They  had  passed  the  city  limits,  and  had  begun  to  bump 
over  rough  roads.  Mrs.  Mendall  was  not  paying  atten- 
tion to  their  surroundings,  so  she  looked  her  surprise 
when  they  climbed  a  slope  and  then  turned  out  of  the 
road  across  a  level  space  that  brought  them  to  the  edge 
of  a  steep  incline. 

"It's  all  right,"  MacAllister  said.  "I  came  this  way 
out  of  purpose.  I  wanted  to  look  at  the  work  down 
there." 

To  Mrs.  Mendall  it  looked  like  chaos.  Below  them, 
some  little  distance  away  on  the  level,  was  a  conglom- 
eration of  men  and  mules  and  wagons.    There  were 


A   BIT    OF    BAD    NEWS  195 

piles  of  debris  about  still,  patches  that  had  been  cleared, 
and  spaces  that  were  already  leveled  for  foundations. 
There  were  teams,  a  steady  procession  of  them,  hauling 
bricks,  sacks  of  cement,  and  lumber.  The  near  end  of 
the  railroad  track  that  led  to  the  Union  Pacific  line  was 
being  restored.  The  place  swarmed  with  activity.  It 
was  the  first  time  Mrs.  Mendall  had  seen  what  had 
been  MacAllister's  plant. 

"You  are  rebuilding?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  make  a  munition  plant  of  it  ?" 

MacAllister  had  been  asked  the  same  question  times 
out  of  number  in  the  last  few  days.  From  his  instant 
rebuilding,  Laclasse  judged  that  he  meant  to  go  on; 
that  would  be  like  Alexander  MacAllister.  He  gave 
his  usual  answer :  "I  never  tell  what  I'm  going  to  do 
till  it's  done." 

"Have  you  any  clue  yet,  as  to  who  did  it?" 

"If  I  have,  it's  a  thing  I  can't  tell.  .  .  .  I  see 
my  red  roadster  down  there,  so  Townley  evidently 
got  out  on  time  with  the  orders  I  sent  by  him.  He's 
useful  to  me  in  all  this  rush  of  work."  He  spoke  with 
a  certain  dry  satisfaction  that  mingled  curiously  with 
restless  irritation. 

He  continued  to  watch,  leaning  on  the  steering- 
wheel,  and  after  looking  at  what  was  going  on  below, 
Mrs.  Mendall  studied  him.  It  struck  her  again,  for- 
cibly, that  he  looked  harassed.  The  destruction  of  his 
property  was  enough,  in  itself,  to  upset  most  men,  but 
Mrs.  Mendall  was  very  certain  that  Marie  was,  in  part, 


196  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

the  cause  of  his  anxiety.  He  certainly  loved  his  daugh- 
ter, that  was  more  and  more  apparent,  and  his  anxiety 
had  increased  in  proportion  to  his  love.  It  was  natural. 
He  was  too  young  a  man  to  have  the  direction  of  a 
woman's  future  thrust  upon  him,  and  such  a  woman  as 
Marie  promised  to  be. 

MacAllister  had  sat  motionless  for  some  time,  when, 
suddenly,  he  straightened,  and  with  so  fierce  a  look 
that  she  was  startled.  Just  below,  nearer  the  base  of 
the  hill,  was  a  road  cut  so  deep  in  the  red  soil  that  a 
bank  lifted  between  it  and  the  activity  in  the  valley, 
a  natural  breastwork  behind  which  a  man  stood,  while 
through  field-glasses  he  studied  the  operations  in  the 
distance.  MacAllister  was  looking  down  on  him,  his 
always  tanned  face  grown  brick-red. 

When  finally  he  turned  on  Mrs.  Mendall  there  was 
a  dangerous  light  in  his  eyes.  "Ye  see  him?"  he  de- 
manded. "Ye  see  his  car  a  little  down  the  road  there. 
Do  ye  recognize  him?', 

"I  think  it  is  Mr.  Kraup,"  Mrs.  Mendall  said  with  a 
touch  of  excitement.  All  Laclasse  had  hazarded 
guesses  as  to  Andrew  Kraup' s  possible  part  in  the  de- 
struction of  MacAllister's  plant.  There  had  been  much 
bitter  feeling  expressed — both  pro-German  and  anti- 
German. 

"Ye're  right— it's  he.  .  .  .  All  right  for  ye, 
Mr.  Andrew  Kraup!"  And  MacAllister  swung  him- 
self out  of  the  car. 

He  looked  fighting  angry,  and  Mrs.  Mendall  ex- 


A   BIT   OF   BAD   NEWS  197 

claimed  in  alarm :  "Mr.  MacAllister,  don't !  What  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

"I'm  not  going  down  to  ask  him  the  time  of  day — 
don't  ye  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Mendall.  I  mean  to  watch  a 
bit  without  being  seen — spy  on  the  spy.  If  he  looks 
up  and  sees  yer  white  gown,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  can't 
back  the  car  without  a  rumpus." 

He  spoke  more  coolly.  He  stood  beside  her,  his 
head  and  shoulders  hidden  by  her  body,  his  eyes  on  the 
man  below.  Mrs.  Mendall  also  watched,  but  with 
frequent  glances  at  the  face  close  to  her  shoulder,  a 
foreshortened  view  of  thick  brows,  steely  eyes  and 
tight  lips,  his  steady,  deep-breathing  strength,  and  for 
the  first  time  she  yielded  Alexander  MacAllister  a  re- 
luctant admiration.  It  was  the  primitive  appeal,  and 
she  recognized  it  as  such.  What  wonder  that  Freda 
O'Rourke  had  given  him  six  years  of  devotion ! 

Suddenly  the  arm  that  rested  on  the  back  of  her 
seat  circled  her.  "Turn  yer  back  on  him  now — turn 
around  to  me,"  MacAllister  ordered.  "He's  going. 
Just  keep  turned  till  I  tell  ye  to  move." 

For  several  minutes  Mrs.  Mendall  looked  down  on 
MacAllister's  bent  head  and  broad  shoulders,  and  then 
he  straightened.  "He's  backed  around  the  curve,  and 
we'll  be  off,  too.  .  .  .  I'll  get  ye  home  now  in 
short  time." 

And  he  did.  They  went  at  such  speed  that  there  was 
no  opportunity  for  conversation.  The  only  remark 
MacAllister  made,  until  they  reached  the  grove,  was : 


198  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"It's  too  much  to  ask  of  a  man — to  give  up  an  enter- 
prise, when  his  enemy  shows  his  hand  as  plainly  as  that 
man  does." 

His  heavy  frown  did  not  lift  until  he  saw  on  the 
slope  of  Twin  Oaks  Hill  the  red  patch  that  indicated 
Marie.  Then  his  scowl  left  him.  He  looked,  all  at 
once,  as  eager  and  almost  as  young  as  the  boy  who 
had  loved  Eugenie.  "I  guessed  she'd  be  waiting  for 
me,"  he  said. 


XXX 


MRS.  MENDALL  ACTS 


THE  next  morning,  when  Mrs.  Mendall  came  into 
the  Laclasse  National  Bank,  the  place  was 
crowded.  It  was  the,  usual  Saturday  morning  rush  of 
business.  The  cashier's  desk  was  surrounded,  and  in 
his  more  secluded  retreat  Frederick  Bagsby  was  talk- 
ing to  a  group  of  men. 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  given  a  seat  near  Bagsby's  en- 
closure. She  sat  tensely  upright,  waiting  until  he 
parted  with  the  men  who  were  talking  to  him.  They 
were  all  laughing  as  they  went  out ;  then  Bagsby  turned 
to  her. 

The  instant  he  recognized  her  his  face  changed.  "It's 
Mrs.  Mendall,  isn't  it?"  he  asked.  "Did  you — want 
to  see  me?"  He  had  sobered.  There  was  constraint 
in  his  manner. 

"If  you  can  spare  a  few  moments,"  Mrs.  Mendall 
said  evenly. 

"Why — certainly — if  it's  important.  This  is  our 
busy  day — " 

It  was  plain  he  was  taken  aback.  When  she  said 
steadily,  "Yes,  it  is  important,  or  I  would  not  trouble 
you,"  an  anxious  line  appeared  between  his  brows. 

199 


200  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

He  offered  her  a  chair,  but  Mrs.  Mendall  hesitated. 
"Can  we  talk  here  without  being  overheard  ?" 

"Perhaps  the  inner  room  would  be  better,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

He  hastened  to  hold  the  door  for  her,  and  then 
cl&sed  it  securely.  When  he  faced  her  at  the  table  he 
had  grown  crimson,  and  there  was  real  alarm  in  his 
usually  kindly  eyes.    "Well,  what  is  it  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Is  it  true,  Mr.  Bagsby,  that  the  school  board  intends 
to  drop  my  husband?"  Mrs.  Mendall  asked,  in  the  same 
steady  way  in  which  she  had  spoken  from  the  be- 
ginning. 

"Oh !"  Bagsby  said,  with  a  note  of  relief.  "Sit  down, 
Mrs.  Mendall ;  sit  down  please,  while  I  explain.  .  .  . 
The  board  wants  to  cut  down  expenses,  as  usual,  and 
there  has  been  talk  of  making  a  change  in  the  art  de- 
partment. You  know  I  had  difficulty  in  persuading 
them  three  years  ago  to  increase  the  salary  of  the  art 
teacher.  They  seem  to  think  the  result  doesn't  justify 
the  expenditure."  He  had  regained  his  usual  business 
manner. 

"And  you  think  it  would  be  a  wise  thing  to  drop 
my  husband?"  Mrs.  Mendall  was  very  pale,  as  she 
had  been  when  she  had  talked  with  MacAUister;  a 
little  blue  about  the  lips  and  eyes. 

Frederick  Bagsby  was,  as  a  rule,  a  kind-hearted 
man.  He  was  very  sorry  for  Mrs.  Mendall.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  come  to  him  to 
plead  for  her  husband.  The  situation  was  painful. 
But  he  was  also  a  determined  man  when  roused.    Carl 


MRS.    MENDALL   ACTS  201 

Mendall  was  a  menace ;  Bagsby  felt  that  he  was  quite 
within  his  right  in  letting  the  school  board  make  its  de- 
cision without  his  interference.  He  had  not  instigated 
the  movement  to  oust  Mendall.  He  had  been  neutral 
and  intended  to  remain  so. 

He  spoke  firmly.  "I  think,  Mrs.  Mendall,  the  de- 
cisions of  the  board  are  usually  wise  ones." 

"Have  you  heard  any  complaint  of  my  husband  as 
a  teacher?" 

"No.  He  is  considered  a  good  teacher.  It  is  simply 
a  question  of  cutting  down  expenses." 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  carefully  and  painfully  considered 
her  plan  of  procedure;  she  had  spent  a  wretched  night 
in  trying  to  decide  what  was  best.  She  continued 
steadily.  "I  am  glad  to  be  assured  of  that,  for  I  real- 
ize, just  as  you  do,  that  the  mistakes  Carl  has  made 
are  entirely  aside  from  his  efficiency  as  a  teacher. 
.  .  .  I  understand  perfectly  why  you  have  with- 
drawn your  support  from  my  husband,  and  to  a  certain 
extent  I  sympathize  with  you.  The  important  thing  is 
— is  it  wise  for  you  to  do  so  just  now  ?" 

Bagsby  straightened.  "I  don't  understand  you !"  he 
said  sharply. 

"Did  you  think  any  other  consideration  than  my  hus- 
band's good  name  would  have  brought  me  to  you?" 
Mrs.  Mendall  retorted.  "I  mean  that  if  there  has  not 
already  been  general  criticism  of  your  wife's  conduct 
with  my  husband,  an  antagonistic  attitude  on  your 
part  is  certain  to  arouse  it." 

"My  wife — "  Bagsby  said.     "My  wife's  conduct 


202  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

with  your  husband !"  He  rose  in  his  anger  and  stood 
over  her.    "Be  careful  what  you  say!" 

Her  eyes  widened  as  she  looked  up  at  him.  "Do 
you  mean  you  didn't  know — ?" 

"That  I  didn't  know  what ?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  silent  from  surprise — and  con- 
cern. She  would  not  have  struck  him  as  she  had,  had 
she  known.  She  had  acted  in  ignorance.  .  .  . 
But  the  thing  was  done. 

"I  thought  you  knew,"  she  said  in  a  subdued  way. 

"You  thought  I  knew  what?"  Bagsby  repeated, 
breathing  quickly.  "I  don't  want  to  forget  that  you're 
a  woman,  Mrs.  Mendall!  .  .  .  Please  explain 
yourself." 

"I  would  not  have  come — not  in  this  way — if  I  had 
thought  that  you  did  not  at  least  suspect,"  Mrs.  Men- 
dall said  in  distress.  "I  thought  you  must  know  that 
your  wife  has  been  acting  like  an  infatuated  woman — 
and  that  my — my  husband  has  not  done  as  he  should ; 
that  you  had  guessed  there  was  talk.  It  seemed  natural 
that  you  should  want  him  out  of  the  way." 

"There's  some  mistake.  My  wife's  not  that  sort  of 
a  woman !"  Bagsby  said  hotly. 

"The  woman  a  man  knows  least  about  is  his  wife." 

"What  are  you  basing  your  suspicions  on?"  Bagsby 
demanded,  though  his  raised  voice  had  lowered.  There 
was  such  absolute  conviction  in  Mrs.  Mendall's  troub- 
led eyes — and  such  honest  compassion.  It  was  her 
compassion  that  sickened  him.  He  had  been  utterly 
unsuspecting.      He  had  thought  his  wife  too  self- 


MRS.    MENDALL   ACTS  203 

respecting,  too  critical  and  too  fastidious  for  even  flip- 
pant conduct.  On  the  heels  of  anger  had  come  bewil- 
derment. .  .  .  But  after  the  first  blind  flash  of 
unbelief,  a  hundred  small  indications  crowded  upon 
him — and  the  large  fact  of  his  wife's  ennui.  .  .  . 
It  loomed  upon  Bagsby  that  his  wife  was  capable  of 
deceit. 

"I  don't  believe  there  has  been  actual  bad  conduct ;  I 
will  not  believe  that,"  Mrs.  Meadall  said.  "But  it  is 
true  that  your  wife  has  persistently  sought  my  hus- 
band. She  has  flattered  him  as  a  clever  woman  knows 
how  to  flatter  an  artist.  She  has  not  hesitated  to  come 
into  my  house — under  my  very  roof — to  take  posses- 
sion of  him.  She  has  written  him  silly  notes.  This 
morning  he  received  a  note  asking  him  to  meet  her  this 
evening,  after  the  Art  League  meeting — that  she  would 
be  driving  her  electric,  and  alone.  .  .  .  I've  seen 
these  notes,  but  not  through  any  disloyalty  of  Carl's; 
simply  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  destroy  them. 
He  is  a  careless  man  in  everything  but  his  work ;  care- 
less in  his  attitude  to  woman ;  perhaps  more  careless  in 
that  respect  than  in  any  other.  ...  I  heard  yes- 
terday that  the  board  thought  of  dropping  Carl.  When 
I  saw  that  note  I  decided  to  come  to  you.  It  seemed 
the  best  thing  to  do."    She  stopped. 

Bagsby  did  not  look  at  her  when  she  had  finished. 
He  was  looking  down.  "How  much  of  all  this  does 
Clare  know?"  he  asked  heavily. 

He  did  not  doubt  what  he  had  heard.  In  spite  of 
her  detestation  of  his  wife,  Mrs.  Mendall  was  trying 


204  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

to  speak  without  exaggeration.  She  felt  her  husband's 
defection  too  keenly.  .  .  .  And  it  all  tallied  so 
well  with  his  own  knowledge — now  that  he  understood. 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Your  daughter  is  a  good 
woman,  Mr.  Bagsby.  I  have  sometimes  thought  she 
was  sacrificing  herself  for  your  sake.  I  have  talked 
a  good  deal  with  her.  She  is  fine  and  upright.  You 
have  a  real  friend  in  her,  I  am  certain." 

"It's  over  her  I've  been  worrying;  I  thought  Blanche 
was  safe  enough,"  Bagsby  said,  with  the  simplicity  of 
the  man  who  has  been  hard  hit.  "It  didn't  seem  best 
— Clare's  seeing  so  much  of  a  young  man  like — your 
husband.  That's  all  I  was  thinking  of.  I've  felt  lately 
that  I  hadn't  considered  Clare  enough  when  I  mar- 
ried. You  know  how  it  is  with  a  man,  Mrs.  Mendall — 
he  doesn't  stop  to  think  when  he  is  in  love.  I  didn't 
realize  what  it  means  to  marry  so  young  a  woman." 
He  looked  at  her  now,  the  look  of  a  man  who  is 
ashamed  of  his  closest  possession. 

"I  know,"  Mrs.  Mendall  said  with  quick  sympathy. 
Her  discomfort  made  her  rise;  it  seemed  cruel  to  sit 
there  looking  at  his  hurt  and  shame. 

Bagsby  drew  himself  up.  "Just  the  same,  Mrs. 
Mendall,  I  mean  to  guard  my  home."  The  red  light 
grew  in  his  eyes,  and  suddenly  flamed.  "I'll — I'd  kill 
the  man  I  found  in  my  wife's  company!" 

Mrs.  Mendall  nodded.  She  liked  that  touch  of  the 
male  animal;  just  as  she  had  liked  the  ugly  fighting 
man  in  MacAllister;  as  she  liked  her  husband  when 
the  thunderous  mood  was  on  him.     "I  can  make  no 


MRS.    MENDALL   ACTS  205 

promises  for  Carl;  he  will  have  to  choose,"  she  said 
quietly.  "And  you  will  know  how  to  deal  with  your 
wife.  .  .  .  I  have  thought  about  this  trouble 
longer  than  you  have,  Mr.  Bagsby;  your  wife  has  a 
high  regard  for  her  social  position;  she  will  not  be 
likely  to  jeopardize  it."  The  detestation  of  Blanche 
Bagsby  that  was  in  her  lifted  its  head:  "The  fear  of 
losing  position  is  the  only  whip  that  will  cut  to  the 
quick  of  some  women.  'What  people  will  say*  consti- 
tutes their  whole  moral  code.  ...  As  for  Carl — 
I  count  on  the  fact  that  he  forgets  easily."  Her  lips 
quivered,  then  set. 

Even  in  his  perturbation  Bagsby  was  impressed  by 
her.  In  spite  of  her  surprising  composure  she  was  suf- 
fering keenly;  her  very  profound  self-respect  was  af- 
fronted. And  she  loved  her  husband,  passionately  and 
protectively.  "I'm  sorry  enough  for  all  this,"  he  said 
awkwardly.  "I  can't  say  what  I  think  of  my — of  my 
household's  having  any  part  in  it — I — "  Bagsby 
stopped  and  offered  his  hand. 

Mrs.  Mendall  gave  him  her  small  clasp.  "Thank 
you,"  she  said,  with  the  dimpled  smile  that  often  as  not 
covered  a  heartache.  "I  know  you  agree  with  me  now 
that  it  would  not  be  wise  to  stir  up  talk  by  depriving 
my  husband  of  his  position.  It  would  be  laid  to  your 
door.  You  can't  afford  it — you  have  Clare  to  think 
of." 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  not  forgotten  her  purpose.  Her 
lips  tightened  slightly  as  she  exacted  her  condition. 
Bagsby  knew  from  the  steady  look  she  gave  him  that 


206  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

she  would  fight.  His  hatred  of  Carl  Mendall  would 
not  be  allowed  that  outlet.  And  his  good  sense  agreed 
with  her. 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Mendall  knew  that  it  was  a  promise,  and  she 
smiled  her  pretty  smile  in  return  for  it. 

She  went  out  into  the  sun  and  waited  on  the  corner, 
bent  upon  getting  the  first  car  that  would  take  her 
home.  She  looked  with  wide  eyes  that  did  not  see  at 
people  and  vehicles.  Her  hands  and  feet  were  like  ice. 
She  felt  for  a  time  as  if  she  would  faint.  It  was  ter- 
ribly hard  to  fight  like  that,  and  there  was  a  still  more 
painful  undertaking  before  her. 


XXXI 


AN  ULTIMATUM 


MRS.  MEND  ALL  sat  in  the  twilight  with  hands 
folded,  waiting.  She  had  waited  through  that 
long  Saturday  afternoon,  seated  in  the  same  low  chair, 
stitching  yards  of  thoughts  into  the  soft  white  ma- 
terial that  now  lay  folded  beside  her.  She  had  looked 
up  with  a  smile  for  MacAllister  when  he  had  come  for 
Marie,  and  had  smiled  again  when  he  said : 

"I've  had  another  talk  with  Bagsby,  Mrs.  Mendall ; 
I  caught  him  just  before  the  bank  closed.  I  think  ye 
need  not  worry  over  the  school  matter.  Bagsby's  prom- 
ised me  he's  going  to  stand  yer  friend."  MacAllister 
was  glad  he  could  convey  that  bit  of  comfort  to  her 
before  Marie  came  down,  for  she  looked  so  pale. 
Anxiety  had  told  on  her. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  not  enlightened  him.  She  had 
thanked  him  prettily,  and  then  smiled  on  Marie  who 
came  out  to  them  looking  as  brilliant  as  a  tropical  bird 
in  her  swathing  of  dull  gold  and  red. 

"I'm  taking  Marie  to  dine  with  me  at  the  Country 
Club,"  MacAllister  had  announced,  "so  don't  ye  be 
disturbed  if  she's  gone  till  a  late  hour.  I  had  a  re- 
porter troubling  me  this  morning  for  particulars  con- 

207 


208  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

cerning  my  ward — the  Sunday  paper'll  have  an  article. 
It's  time  I  showed  her  to  Laclasse." 

Though  Mrs.  Mendall  was  too  much  absorbed  by 
her  thoughts  to  give  close  attention,  she  felt  his  man- 
ner. He  evidently  took  no  pleasure  in  Marie's  debut. 
He  was  decided  and  yet  anxious.  And  his  manner 
to  Marie  was  different,  as  affectionate  as  ever,  ten- 
derly so,  he  fairly  lifted  the  girl  to  her  seat  beside  him 
in  the  car,  questioning  the  warmth  of  her  coat,  and 
eager  for  her  comfort,  but  it  was  plain  that  he  was 
oppressed,  and  not  with  happiness.  Evidently  he  had 
decided  on  his  course,  but  he  might  well  look  grave  at 
the  thought  of  presenting  Marie  to  Laclasse,  and  not 
as  his  daughter.  Mrs.  Mendall  knew  what  would  be 
his  reasons  for  doing  such  a  thing,  but  he  was  certainly 
taking  risks.  She  wondered  what  would  grow  out  of 
it  all. 

Then  she  returned  to  her  own  problem.  A  little 
later  on,  she  looked  up  to  smile  on  Lucy,  when  in  at- 
tire as  brilliant,  though  not  so  rich  as  Marie's,  the 
mulatto  rounded  the  house,  bound  for  the  car  that 
would  take  her  for  a  gala  Saturday  night  in  Laclasse. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  sat  on,  until  the  shadows  length- 
ened— until  Mendall  came  out,  hatless  but  with  walk- 
ing stick  under  his  arm.  "I'm  going  for  a  walk,"  he 
said.  "I've  been  down  and  foraged,  so  don't  get  any 
supper  for  me.  I  will  be  back  by  eight — in  time  to 
get  the  car.  It's  the  Art  League  meeting  to-night." 
He  had  touched  her  cheek,  and  then  he  also  had  gone 
out  through  the  grove. 


AN   ULTIMATUM  209 

Mrs.  Mendall  remained  where  she  was,  but  the  blood 
rose  in  such  a  surge  to  throat  and  brow  that  her  eyes 
were  blinded.  It  throbbed  in  her  finger-tips ;  she  could 
not  sew. 

It  was  then  she  folded  her  work  and  waited — until 
through  the  twilight  she  saw  her  husband  returning. 

"I've  been  looking  at  the  sunset,"  he  said,  as  he 
came  up.  "There's  red-gold  enough  in  the  sky  for  a 
kingdom.  ...  Do  you  know  what  time  it  is?  I 
went  without  my  watch." 

"You  have  three-quarters  of  an  hour  yet." 

"Good!"  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  porch,  leaning 
against  one  of  the  pillars.  "Have  you  had  supper, 
Margaret?" 

"No." 

Mendall  noticed  her  manner  for  the  first  time. 
"What's  wrong?"  he  asked.    "You're  not  ill,  are  you?" 

She  was  silent. 

Mendall  studied  her  in  the  dimness.  She  looked 
very  small  and  white,  sitting  there  in  her  little  chair. 
"What  is  it  now?"  he  repeated,  with  a  touch  of  resig- 
nation.   He  hated  household  anxieties. 

"I  heard  yesterday,  Carl,  that  you  were  to  be 
dropped  from  the  schools."  She  spoke  as  if  her  throat 
were  dry. 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  Mrs.  Mendall  counted 
the  seconds  by  heart-beats. 

Then  Mendall  said:  "So  it's  come,  has  it — "  He 
sat  still  under  the  realization — for  a  moment — until 
an  uncontrollable  wave  of  relief,  the  uplifting  sense  of 


210  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

freedom  swept  him.  He  rose  suddenly  and  stretched, 
arms  high,  stretched  like  an  animal  freed  from  har- 
ness. 

Then  as  suddenly  his  arms  dropped,  and  he  sat  down 
again  at  her  feet.  "I  am  sorry  for  you,  Margaret," 
he  said  in  low  tones.  After  a  moment  he  added :  "I 
suppose  Mrs.  Bagsby  will  get  me  some  private  pupils." 

It  was  the  spur  Mrs.  Mendall  needed.  She  stiffened. 
"I  went  to  Mr.  Bagsby  this  morning,  Carl.  I  knew, 
of  course,  that  he  had  withdrawn  his  support,  and  I 
thought  I  knew  why.  .  .  .  He  knows  all  I  know, 
and  he  knows  also  that  there  has  been  gossip.  .  .  . 
We  talked  for  some  time,  and  I  finally  persuaded  him 
that  the  way  to  make  scandal  out  of  gossip  was  for 
him  to  turn  against  you.  He  has  his  wife's  good  name 
to  guard." 

It  took  Mendall  a  moment  to  grasp  all  her  speech 
implied,  and  then  he  turned  on  her.  "I've  done  his 
wife  no  harm!"  he  flashed.  "It's  been  nothing  but 
play!  Just  an  outgrowth  of  the  deadly  monotony  of 
this  place !    I've  tried  to  tell  you  so  all  along." 

"I  doubt  if  you  could  harm  Mrs.  Bagsby,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  said  with  immeasurable  contempt.  "The  note 
she  wrote  you  yesterday  was  not  written  by  a  decent 
woman.  It  is  not  play  with  her,  and  it  would  not  be 
with  you.  Something  has  made  her  drop  her  mask  a 
little.  She  was  more  careful  in  her  other  effusions." 
Mrs.  Mendall  spoke  less  clearly.  "I  have  seen  them 
all,  Carl.    It  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  spied  on  you, 


AN    ULTIMATUM  211 

but  I  was  so  terribly  afraid  of  the  harm  you  were  go- 
ing to  do  to  yourself/' 

"So  you  searched  my  pockets  and  overhauled  my 
desk,  did  you?"  Mendall  said  with  a  half  laugh.  "Well, 
I  never!" 

It  was  a  flash  of  his  usual  irresponsible  humor.  He 
was  genuinely  amused.  If  it  had  mattered  to  him  par- 
ticularly, he  would  have  been  furious.  As  it  was  he 
laughed. 

"I  didn't  want  to  do  it,  but  I  was  terribly  afraid," 
Mrs.  Mendall  repeated,  in  a  smothered  way. 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  said.  "If  you  had  put  a  knife 
in  me,  or  clawed  me,  as  a  result,  I'd  have  thought  it 
natural  enough.  All  of  which  shows  I'm  an  unre- 
generate  beast,  I  suppose."  He  leaned  toward  her, 
his  hands  seeking  her  waist.  "Margaret,  listen  to  me, 
dear—" 

But  she  drew  back,  well  out  of  his  reach.  "Don't 
touch  me!"  she  said  with  sudden  passion.  "I  don't 
want  to  claw  you !  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  anything 
in  the  world — I  couldn't  hurt  you!  No  matter  what 
you  made  me  suffer,  I  couldn't  hurt  you!  You  are 
everything  to  me.  Even  when  you  have  wandered 
away  from  me,  I've  not  reproached  you;  I've  only 
tried  in  every  way  to  guard  you.  I  have  always  tried 
to  guard  you  and  help  you  and  sustain  you — ever  since 
you  were  a  boy."  Her  voice  began  to  fail :  "And  I 
love  you — in  other  ways — you  know  how.    .    .    ." 

"Margaret!" 


212  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

She  pushed  his  hands  away,  caught  her  breath,  and 
went  on:  "But  to-day  I  decided  that,  if  necessary,  I 
could  live  without  you;  that  this  is  the  last  time  I 
struggle  for  you  against  another  woman."  She  pulled 
her  skirt  from  his  hold  and  rose,  retreating  to  the 
door.  "I  know  there  have  been  times  when  you  have 
wanted  to  be  free.  If  you  want  to  be — if  you  want  to 
— to  go  into  town  to-night,  you  must  go.  You  needn't 
come  to  tell  me — your  going  will  tell  me.    .    .    ." 

She  sped  through  the  hall  and  into  their  room.  Men- 
dall  heard  the  door  close  on  her. 


XXXII 


A  DECISION 


MEND  ALL  was  left  to  consider  his  wife's  ulti- 
matum: Margaret,  the  wise,  the  secretive,  the 
slow  to  anger  and  quick  in  sympathy,  always  respon- 
sive to  his  touch,  impassioned  and  at  the  same  time  ten- 
der, had  told  him  that  he  was  free  to  go  if  he  wished, 
and  mingled  with  his  amazement  was  consternation. 

Carl  Mendall  had  a  lifetime  knowledge  of  Margaret 
Mendall ;  she  meant  what  she  had  said.  He  had  some 
conception  of  the  agony  of  mind  that  had  made  such  a 
declaration  possible.  With  most  women  it  would  indi- 
cate merely  an  ebullition  of  anger,  but  not  with  Mar- 
garet. With  her  it  was  the  outgrowth  of  three  years 
of  consideration.  It  was  not  simply  Mrs.  Bagsby  that 
had  aroused  her;  it  was  his  entire  careless  attitude  to 
marriage ;  his  slight  regard  for  bonds  that  to  her  were 
sacred.  ...  If  they  were  to  go  on  together,  it 
would  only  be  under  solemn  promise.  If  she  came  into 
his  arms  again,  it  would  only  be  because  of  restored 
confidence. 

Was  it  in  him  to  keep  such  a  promise?  Was  it  in 
him  to  fight  temptation — paint  in  spite  of  it?  .  .  , 
That  would  be  as  hard  as  his  frequent  stifling  of  the 

213 


214  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

mad  impulse  to  fling  aside  every  bond  and  walk  out 
into  the  world  with  nothing  but  the  implements  for 
creating  color  strapped  to  his  back.  Again  and  again 
his  affection  had  held  him  from  that.  In  what  fashion 
would  he  be  repaying  Margaret  for  the  years  she  had 
given  him! 

Carl  Mendall  rarely  troubled  himself  over  right  or 
wrong — whether  he  painted  to  the  best  advantage  or 
not  interested  him  far  more.  And  the  fact  that  his 
wife,  in  spite  of  her  bravery,  would  be  desolate  with- 
out him,  touched  him  much  more  closely  than  any 
consciousness  of  wrong-doing.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  given  to  self -questioning  or  self -analysis,  or  he 
might  have  asked  himself  what  he  would  do  if  Mrs. 
Bagsby  mattered  greatly  to  him.  And  also  it  might 
have  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  so  absorbed  by  in- 
terest in  Marie  that  his  home  and  his  studio  had  become 
pleasant  places. 

Though  not  exactly  of  this  nature,  it  was  the  thought 
of  Marie  that  kept  him  from  almost  instantly  follow- 
ing his  wife.  Mrs.  Bagsby  he  dismissed  from  his  con- 
sideration in  the  time  it  took  him  to  shrug.  What  did 
their  little  emotional  episode  amount  to!  He  had 
painted  a  somewhat  truer  portrait  of  the  woman  as  a 
result;  that  was  all.  She  was  too  conventional,  too 
usual,  to  stir  him  particularly.  He  had  realized  that 
from  the  beginning. 

But  this  girl  who  by  odd  chance  was  a  part  of  their 
household  concerned  him  vitally.     She  was  a  marvel. 


A   DECISION  215 

A  mystery  she  might  be  to  many,  but  not  to  him.  He 
burned  to  paint  the  reality  of  her,  and  in  defiance  of 
her  assumptions,  her  audacity,  her  sophisticated  yel- 
low smile.  Did  she  think  she  deceived  him !  A  jungle- 
woman,  she  was.  A  tiger-woman — no  matter  who  had 
fathered  her. 

She  warned  him  that  there  should  be  no  play  in 
their  intercourse  but  that  made  her  only  the  more 
alluring.  It  was  Marie's  potentiality  for  mischief  that 
kept  him  sitting  in  thought.  Could  he  give  her  defiance 
for  defiance;  reach  the  truth  of  her  without  mastering 
her — and  without  being  mastered  himself?  Until  he 
went  to  his  wife  assured  of  his  own  strength  of  will, 
and  his  right  intention,  what  he  would  say  to  her 
would  be  little  else  than  a  perjury.  ...  It  had  not 
occurred  to  him  before  that  there  might  be  a  certain 
joy  in  systematically  playing  the  game  of  defiance.  It 
would  be  like  riding  a  horse  that  was  bent  upon  throw- 
ing him. 

That  the  whole  procedure  would  be  a  secret  from 
Margaret  did  not  concern  him.  She  had  never  been 
part  of  his  work;  she  was  entirely  aside  from  it;  she 
had  no  real  understanding  of  it.  As  long  as  he  was 
assured  in  his  own  mind  that  there  would  be  no  such 
complications  as  had  arisen  with  Mrs.  Bagsby,  his  con- 
science would  be  clear.  He  decided  that  he  would  take 
Marie  at  her  word ;  there  should  be  no  such  complica- 
tions. 

Mendall  rose  and  went  to  his  wife.     He  gathered 


216  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

into  his  arms  the  small  huddled  body  he  found  on  their 
bed,  winning  his  forgiveness  in  man  fashion.  That 
still  night,  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  about  its 
own  concerns,  and  their  roof  covered  them  alone,  lived 
long  in  Margaret  Mendall's  memory. 


XXXIII 


MARIE  CHARMS  LACLASSE 


THE  end  of  June  brought  shimmering  heat  to  the 
prairie  states.  Nebraska  corn  stood  nearly  a  yard 
high;  the  billowing  wheat  began  to  hint  subtly  of  the 
yellow  harvest  to  come;  above  the  steady  on-moving 
current  of  the  Missouri,  creeping  along  the  flats  and 
edging  its  willow-hung  islands,  was  blue  haze,  while 
over  the  whole  land,  river-lands,  wheat-lands,  the 
bustle  of  Laclasse  and  the  silence  of  the  open  spaces, 
the  fluff  from  the  cottonwoods,  like  blown  dandelion 
down,  played  hide-and-seek.  The  Bellevue  hills  were 
dusted  with  the  impalpable  white  caught  up  from  the 
ravines. 

And  with  the  coming  of  summer  Marie  had  also 
bloomed  into  colorful  luxuriance — as  Carl  Mendall  had 
known  she  would.  Her  hair  had  gained  the  sheen  of  a 
tiger's  coat,  and  her  body  the  clean-muscled  litheness 
of  the  jungle  prowler.  Her  lashes  were  tipped  with 
gold,  her  skin  had  the  texture  and  color  of  rich  cream ; 
she  had  lost  every  trace  of  jaundiced  emaciation. 

But  in  spite  of  the  wish  to  join  with  Laclasse  in  its 
acclamation  over  a  nine  days*  wonder,  Mrs.  Mendall 

217 


218  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

did  not  consider  Marie  beautiful.  Her  eyes  were  too 
wide  apart  and  too  heavy-lidded;  her  nose,  with  its 
slightly-broadened  nostrils,  not  delicate  enough  for 
beauty;  her  lips  were  too  full  and  her  chin  too  decided. 
In  spite  of  her  golden  tints,  to  Mrs.  Mendall,  she 
always  suggested  the  dusky.  One  society  reporter, 
who  had  never  in  her  life  been  east  of  Chicago,  or 
south  of  Lincoln,  Nebraska,  described  Alexander  Mac- 
Allister's  ward  as  a  "golden  brunette,  that  wonderful 
combination  of  Latin  and  Saxon  coloring  which  one 
so  often  sees  in  the  capitals  of  Europe,  and  so  rarely 
in  our  own  country.  Miss  Ogilvie's  father  was  a 
Scotchman,  a  cousin  of  Mr.  Alexander  MacAllister's, 
and  her  mother  a  Frenchwoman." 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  smiled  over  that  all-wise  society 
item.  She  smiled  frequently  these  days,  for  things 
were  well  with  her  husband  and  herself.  She  was  hap- 
pier than  she  had  been  since  her  early  married  days. 
The  school  board  had  reappointed  Mendall ;  the  last  in- 
stalment had  been  paid  on  their  house;  they  were  ac- 
tually property  owners,  and  had  a  sum  in  bank.  And 
now  the  schools  had  closed,  Carl  was  absorbed  in  his 
studio,  while  she  made  progress  at  the  business  college. 
And  she  was  no  longer  working  in  secrecy.  She  had 
confessed  to  Mendall  what  she  was  doing.  To  her  sur- 
prise, he  had  not  objected.  Mrs.  Mendall  was  very 
content. 

Sitting  five  mornings  of  the  week  over  her  type- 
writer, she  heard  much  of  the  town  gossip.    The  girls 


MARIE   CHARMS    LACLASSE         219 

about  her  talked.  One  of  the  first  things  she  had  heard 
was  that  Alexander  MacAllister  had  announced  that 
he  intended  to  adopt  his  cousin's  daughter.  That  he 
had  told  both  Frederick  Bagsby  and  Mrs.  Kotany  that 
such  was  his  intention.  There  was  no  man  in  the  city 
closer  to  MacAllister  than  Frederick  Bagsby,  and  Mrs. 
Kotany  was  Laclasse's  most  popular  social  leader; 
Mrs.  Bagsby  with  all  her  maneuvering  would  never  be 
able  to  eclipse  her;  Mrs.  Kotany  was  loved,  Mrs. 
Bagsby  was  not.  Mrs.  Kotany  was  of  Laclasse,  of 
Nebraska,  a.  genial,  frank-spoken  middle-western  prod- 
uct, no  importation.  MacAllister  had  made  his  an- 
nouncement to  people  whose  word  carried  weight. 

There  was  also  talk  of  MacAllister  and  Freda 
O'Rourke.  MacAllister  had  motored  through  La- 
classe  with  her  frequently.  He  had  also  taken  Marie 
to  see  her.  It  was  known  that  he  had  invited  Freda 
to  the  dinner  and  dance  he  had  given  for  his  ward, 
and  that  Freda  had  declined  on  the  ground  that  it 
was  a  young  people's  party,  which  was  quite  true. 
MacAllister  had  gathered  together  the  young  society 
people  of  Laclasse. 

MacAllister's  having  opened  his  house  to  society 
created  a  stir.  He  constantly  entertained  men,  both 
eastern  and  western  capitalists,  but  only  very  occa- 
sionally did  he  give  a  dinner  party  that  included  their 
wives,  and  then  only  for  business  reasons.  He  was 
rarely  inveigled  into  accepting  an  invitation  to  any- 
thing.    Social  Laclasse  saw  very  little  of  him,  and 


220  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

because  of  his  own  ruling.  Like  most  unsocial  bache- 
lors with  fortunes,  he  was  known  to  take  his  pleasures 
as  pleased  him. 

So  his  departure  from  habit  impressed  Laclasse; 
focused  their  attention  upon  his  attitude  to  Marie, 
which  was  probably  exactly  what  MacAllister  in- 
tended. It  was  the  custom  in  Laclasse,  as  elsewhere, 
for  parents  to  give  coming-out  parties  for  their  daugh- 
ters. There  were  those  who  doubted,  of  course,  but 
they  kept  their  doubts  to  themselves,  for  MacAllister 
had  been  too  decided  in  his  expression  of  paternal 
interest  to  admit  of  ugly  comments. 

Mrs.  Mendall  heard  much  of  Marie's  charms.  She 
had  impressed  Laclasse  as  excessively  foreign,  yet 
gracious  and  graceful — and  a  wonderful  dancer.  The 
boys  and  the  group  of  society  bachelors  to  whom 
Marie  was  introduced  declared  that  she  danced  mar- 
velously.  It  was  reported  that  she  had  made  several 
conquests.  Harmon  Kent,  a  much-divorced  man, 
whom  MacAllister  heartily  detested,  was  said  to  be 
taken  with  Marie.  Ellis  Kraup  was  also  said  to  be 
fascinated  by  her,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
supposed  to  be  Clare  Bagsby's  possession.  It  was 
noticed  that  Clare  ignored  his  defection  by  showing 
particular  cordiality  to  Marie.  Mrs.  Mendall  thought 
possibly  she  would  hear  gossip  about  the  Bagsby  fam- 
ily, but  she  did  not — only  that  Mrs.  Bagsby  was  gaily 
social;  that  she  was  entertaining  a  great  deal.  She 
received  no  intimation  that  her  checkmating  of  Mrs. 
Bagsby  was  known. 


MARIE   CHARMS    LACLASSE         221 

The  truth  was  that  life  was  moving  on  in  the  Bagsby 
household  apparently  much  as  usual,  except  that  Clare 
was  rarely  with  her  stepmother  now,  and  often  with 
her  father,  and  Mrs.  Bagsby  was  not  troubled  by  her 
husband's  attentions.  Though  alternately  chilled  by 
fear  and  warmed  by  anger,  Mrs.  Bagsby  adapted 
herself. 

In  her  consternation  over  Mrs.  Mendall's  spirited 
move,  Mrs.  Bagsby  had  fallen  back  upon  the  flirta- 
tious wife's  usual  defense:  "It  is  not  true!"  she  had 
declared,  in  answer  to  her  husband's  accusations. 
"There  has  never  been  anything  between  Carl  Men- 
dall  and  myself  but  friendly  interest.  I  thought  the 
time  had  passed  when  a  woman  could  not  speak  to  a 
man,  or  write  him  a  friendly  note  without  the  worst 
motives  being  ascribed  to  her.  Mrs.  Mendall  is  sim- 
ply an  insanely  jealous  woman.  And  you  have  hurt 
me  terribly  by  your  doubts;  you  have  insulted  me; 
things  will  never  be  the  same  between  us  again — " 

Bagsby  had  been  helpless  against  the  torrent  that 
poured  over  him.  He  had  taken  his  hurt  and  his  cer- 
tainty to  Clare.  Their  talk  had  been  long  and  con- 
fidential. Clare  had  not  tried  to  make  matters  worse 
than  they  were,  but  she  had  been  forced  to  give  her 
estimate  of  Blanche  Bagsby's  character,  and  Bagsby 
had  hung  his  head  in  realization.  He  was  an  honest 
little  man;  he  hated  intrigue  and  deceit.  But  he  was 
not  the  man  to  court  open  rupture.  Outwardly  all  was 
as  usual  with  the  Bagsbys. 

Bagsby  did  not  tell  Clare  all  he  knew  about  Marie 


222  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

Ogilvie  until  the  morning  after  MacAllister's  dinner 
dance.  Then  he  told  her  of  Marie's  curious  advent  on 
the  rainy  night  when  he  had  been  dining  with  Mac- 
Allister.  He  told  her  what  MacAllister  had  said  about 
adopting  a  daughter,  and  the  close  questioning  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected. 

Clare  listened  to  his  account  with  the  deepest  inter- 
est. "I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it  all,"  she  said. 
"She  is  puzzling,  and  I  can't  make  Mr.  MacAllister 
out  at  all.  Why  doesn't  he  marry  and  have  children 
of  his  own?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Bagsby  said  thoughtfully.  "I  un- 
derstand Mac  pretty  well,  but  I've  never  puzzled  out 
his  kink  against  marriage.  Bachelors  do  talk  as  he 
does  about  marriage,  and  in  their  hearts  think  just 
the  opposite,  but  I  believe  Mac's  honest  in  his  reluc- 
tance. And  I  don't  know,  either,  what  to  make  of  his 
devotion  to  this  French  girl.  .  .  .  Mac's  been  no 
saint,  Clare;  he's  not  the  type  to  whom  saintliness 
comes  easy.  Men,  as  a  rule,  belong  to  one  of  three 
classes:  the  average  vulnerable  male  who  draws  a 
straight  line  between  the  woman  he  respects  and  the 
woman  he  doesn't ;  second,  the  one  woman  man ;  and, 
third,  the  man  to  whom  all  women  are  much  the  same 
— he  has  no  reverence  for  anything  feminine — he 
never  thinks  of  any  one  or  anybody  but  himself.  .  .  . 
Now  Mac  belongs  to  the  large  first  class.  He's  as 
hard  as  nails  in  business,  and  shrewd,  but  I  know  what 
most  people  don't,  that  he's  not  so  vulnerable  in  just 


MARIE    CHARMS    LACLASSE  223 

the  ordinary  way;  he  has  a  soft  spot  in  his  heart  for 
women;  particularly  for  the  girl  who's  down  on  her 
luck.  Every  girl  who's  ever  appealed  to  him — to  my 
knowledge — has  got  at  him  by  a  hard-luck  story.  If 
she  hadn't  been  straight,  and  it  wasn't  in  her  to  be 
straight — well,  once  or  twice  there  have  been  compli- 
cations. It  depended  largely  on  her.  Now  with  this 
O'Rourke  affair:  I  know  that,  in  the  beginning,  the 
whole  family  would  have  gone  to  the  wall  but  for 
Mac.  What's  grown  out  of  it,  I  don't  know — Laclasse 
doesn't  know — but,  as  I  say,  with  Mac  it  would  depend 
on  Freda  O'Rourke — it  usually  does  depend  on  the 
woman,  for  that  matter.  .  .  .  But  take  Kraup,  now 
— he  comes  under  the  second  count;  he  married  that 
plain  little  German  wife  of  his  when  he  was  a  boy, 
and  I  don't  believe  he's  ever  swerved  from  her;  he's 
a  born  family  man.  And  I  believe,  given  the  right 
wife,  Ellis  will  turn  out  the  same  sort.  That's  why 
I've  favored  him  beyond  the  other  boys  you  know. 
He's  young  and  impressionable,  but  he's  got  good 
blood  in  him." 

Clare  had  flushed  at  the  mention  of  Ellis.  "And 
the  third  class?"  she  asked,  a  little  hastily. 

"Oh,  well — Mendall's  an  example.  He'd  compro- 
mise a  girl  or  another  man's  wife — it  would  be  all  one 
to  him — he'd  call  it  passion  for  his  art,  or  something 
of  the  kind,  and  let  it  go  at  that.  But,"  and  Bagsby 
winced  at  the  admission,  "with  him,  too,  it  would  de- 
pend a  lot  on  the  woman.  .  .  .  Still,  there's  a  mighty 


224  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

difference  between  his  sort  and  Mac's,  I  can  tell  you! 
Mac  would  no  more  tamper  with  innocence  or  lead 
away  another  man's  wife  than  he'd — well,  than  he'd 
marry  a  questionable  woman.  .  .  .  It's  because  I 
know  him  so  well,  I've  felt  doubtful  about  this  Marie 
Ogilvie.  I  knew  she  was  something  or  other  to  him, 
that  was  plain  enough  the  night  she  came.  But  to  be 
told  that  he  meant  to  adopt  her !  And  he  said  it  with 
the  look  of  the  man  who'll  stand  for  no  questioning, 
just  as  he  looks  when  any  one  asks  him  about  his 
plant.  It's  six  weeks  now,  the  work  out  there  begins 
to  show  for  something,  and  no  one  in  Laclasse  knows 
whether  he  means  to  manufacture  shrapnel  or  plows, 
or  whether  he's  got  any  clue  to  who  blew  him  up. 
...  So  with  this  girl.  I  feel  there's  a  lot  he  could 
say,  and  won't.    It  makes  me  suspicious  of  her." 

"She's  beautiful  and  fascinating,"  Clare  said. 

"But  you  don't  like  her,  do  you?"  her  father  asked 
quickly. 

"Yes — I  think  I  do,"  Clare  answered  slowly.  "I 
think  she  is  very  clever.  ...  I  think,  if  you  don't 
mind,  Dad,  I'll  go  and  call  on  her  this  afternoon." 

"Out  there !"  Bagsby  exclaimed  sharply.  "I've  sent 
that  man  a  check  for  Blanche's  portrait,  and  have  his 
acknowledgment  —  that  ends  our  connection  with 
them." 

Clare  was  accustomed  now  to  giving  advice  and 
affection.  Her  father  was  hers  to  care  for,  as  he  used 
to  be.     She  kissed  him,  rubbing  the  frown  from  his 


MARIE   CHARMS    LACLASSE  225 

forehead.  "I  think  it  would  be  wise  for  me  to  call  on 
Mrs.  Mendall  as  well  as  on  Marie  Ogilvie,  Daddy  dear. 
We  want  to  keep  friends  with  Mrs.  Mendall.  I'll  have 
to  call  on  Mr.  MacAllister's  ward  sooner  or  later,  and 
her  home's  at  the  Mendalls'  for  the  summer — she  told 
me  so." 

"You're  right,  I  suppose,"  Bagsby  agreed  with  a 
sigh.  "I  shall  be  surprised,  though,  if  you  take  to 
that  girl." 

"She's  brilliant,  but  there's  something  sad  about 
her,  too,  Daddy.  I'd  like  to  find  out  a  little  what  she 
really  is." 


XXXIV 


THE  GAME  OF  DEFIANCE 


CARL  MENDALL  was  also  trying  to  discover 
what  Marie  Ogilvie  really  was.  He  was  seeing 
more  of  her  than  any  one  else ;  more  even  than  Mac- 
Allister. 

The  game  of  defiance  had  begun,  and  Mendall  was 
absorbed  by  it.  During  the  first  two  weeks  of  June, 
when  he  had  only  snatched  opportunities  for  painting, 
he  had  posed  Marie  again  and  again,  sketched  and 
resketched  her.  He  was  waiting  for  her  to  grow  into 
perfection,  studying,  meantime,  her  grace,  her  lazy 
energy,  her  astonishing  pliability;  tempting  her  by 
every  art  he  knew  into  fuller  revelation  of  herself. 

He  meant  to  discover  what  manner  of  woman 
Marie  really  was,  and  without  any  emotional  entangle- 
ments. Just  what  Marie's  purpose  was  in  giving  him 
the  opportunity,  Mendall  could  not  determine.  He 
had  the  average  man's  conceit;  it  was  quite  possible 
that  she  was  interested  in  him  and  at  the  same  time 
determined  not  to  show  it;  possibly  it  was  all  de- 
fiance ;  possibly  it  was  enjoyment  of  an  unusual  situa- 
tion ;  Mendall  did  not  know  just  what  was  her  purpose. 

226 


THE    GAME    OF   DEFIANCE  227 

His  own  purpose  was  clear  enough  to  himself:  he 
meant  to  get  at  the  real  Marie  and  paint  a  marvelous 
thing,  take  pure  joy  in  doing  it,  and  at  the  same  time 
hold  up  to  Marie's  yellow  gaze  his  discovery  of  her. 
She  might  keep  her  purpose  to  herself. 

He  entered  upon  his  venture  with  zest. 

It  took  him  some  time  to  determine  how  much  of 
Marie's  careless  freedom  when  she  was  in  his  studio 
was  natural — simply  Marie  as  she  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  being — and  how  much  was  skilful  acting. 
She  sat  at  his  breakfast  table,  the  same  aloof  member 
of  the  household  she  had  always  been,  except  that  now 
she  always  gave  Mrs.  Mendall  an  account  of  herself. 
If  she  was  going  to  be  in  the  studio  that  morning,  she 
told  her  so.  After  her  introduction  to  Laclasse  so- 
ciety she  dutifully  stated  to  Mrs.  Mendall  what  were 
her  engagements.  She  never  really  conversed.  Then, 
when  Mrs.  Mendall  had  started  for  the  city  and  the 
mulatto  woman  was  definitely  engaged  below,  she 
slipped  into  his  studio  and  with  the  closing  of  the  door 
was  transformed. 

Sometimes  she  came  in  her  kimono  and  sandals, 
with  hair  hanging  in  braids;  but  more  often  in  her 
russet  gown,  silk-stockinged  and  satin-shod. 

She  very  soon  threw  aside  her  drawing.  "Why  con- 
tinue with  a  pretense?"  she  said  briefly. 

Thereafter  she  roamed  the  studio  at  her  own  sweet 
will — except  when  Mendall  halted  her  because  of  some 
pose  that  pleased  him. 


228  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"You  are  long  in  beginning  your  masterpiece, 
Sefior,"  she  remarked  one  day. 

"I  want  to  give  my  whole  time  to  it  when  I  do  be- 
gin," was  his  excuse. 

"As  you  wiU,"  she  had  returned  carelessly.  "I  am 
content." 

She  appeared  to  be.  She  sat  by  the  half-hour  on 
his  couch  with  knee  embraced  and  slipper  dangling, 
talking  apparently  of  any  subject  that  entered  her 
head,  though  in  reality,  as  Mendall  discovered,  skil- 
fully avoiding  every  point  upon  which  Mendall  wished 
to  be  enlightened.  If  so  minded  she  stretched  herself 
full  length  on  the  couch,  or,  sitting  on  the  floor  with 
his  sketches  in  her  lap,  criticized  them  unmercifully. 
Or  with  hands  clasped  behind  her  head  and  her  body 
stretched  to  a  full  display  of  its  beautiful  lines,  she 
would  wander  about  the  studio  looking  at  his  paint- 
ings, talking  of  color  with  a  keen  appreciation  that 
thrilled  him. 

He  discovered  that  she  smoked  with  zest.  When 
released  from  some  pose  which  she  had  maintained 
for  an  astonishingly  long  time,  she  would  stretch  her- 
self on  the  couch  and  become  somnolent.  Once,  when 
she  lay  with  eyes  half  closed  and  Mendall  sat  studying 
her  somewhat  heavy  immobility  of  feature,  it  had  oc- 
curred to  him  to  pass  her  his  lighted  cigarette.  Her 
fingers  received  it  with  perfect  naturalness,  her  heavy 
eyelids  merely  drooping  a  little  more  in  languid  en- 
joyment of  a  pleasure  long  denied.  Mendall  became 
convinced  that  she  had  been  in  and  out  of  studios  with 


THE   GAME   OF   DEFIANCE  229 

all  the  careless  freedom  she  now  displayed.  She  un- 
derstood the  art  of  posing;  she  posed  with  the  ease 
of  a  professional,  more  tirelessly,  and  with  more 
adaptability  and  intelligence  than  any  professional 
Mendall  had  ever  known. 

And  despite  her  reticences  she  disclosed  a  fund  of 
experience.  She  appeared  to  have  roamed  over  most 
of  Europe;  her  descriptions  were  too  colorful  not  to 
have  been  experiences.  But  the  how  or  why  of  such 
roaming  remained  unexplained.  Mendall  soon  stopped 
asking  such  pertinent  questions;  she  slid  too  smilingly 
from  beneath  them. 

When  Marie  became  so  intimately  a  part  of  Men- 
dall's  life  that  he  unconsciously  took  a  possessive  view 
of  her,  MacAllister's  devotion  to  her  and  her  devotion 
to  MacAllister  was  a  constant  irritation.  Mendall  had, 
in  his  own  mind,  placed  the  worst  construction  on 
MacAllister's  growing  intimacy  with  Marie — until 
MacAllister  had  introduced  Marie  to  Laclasse.  He 
had  not  known  then  what  to  think.  Some  of  his  sur- 
mises were  scattered  to  the  wind.  He  tried  to  get 
Marie  to  talk  about  MacAllister  and  was  met  by  tiger- 
ish ferocity.  He  succeeded  only  once  in  drawing  an 
opinion  from  her;  when  he  had  ventured  to  test  her 
regarding  Freda  O'Rourke.  His  remark  was  a  mere 
suggestion,  but  Marie  lifted  her  head  as  instantly  as 
would  a  disturbed  snake. 

"You  intimate  a  liaison,  Sefior?  Such  is  not  my 
belief!  .  .  .  And  were  it  true — the  little  family  is 
usual — what  concern  is  it  of  ours?" 


230  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

"If  it  does  not  concern  you,  it  certainly  does  not 
concern  me,"  Mendall  retorted. 

She  continued  to  look  at  him  with  eyes  ominously 
narrowed.  "You  consider  yourself  qualified  to  cast 
the  first  stone,  I  presume,  Senor?" 

"I  am  not,  indeed!"  Mendall  protested. 

"Nor  am  I."  She  rose  and  left  the  room,  her  head 
held  high. 

Mendall  never  again  mentioned  Mac  Alii  ster.  The 
fear  of  losing  Marie's  daily  companionship  was  all- 
powerful.    He  was  wretched  until  she  appeared  again. 

But  he  liked  her  foreign  view-point,  just  as  he  de- 
lighted in  her  unconventionalities.  She  was  an  absorb- 
ingly interesting  companion.  There  were  frequent  oc- 
casions when  she  snarled  at  him,  but  there  were  other 
times  when  Mendall  found  her  intensely  lovable; 
times  when  she  was  sweetness  itself.  She  was  always 
frankly  admiring  of  his  work;  even  when  she  criti- 
cized it.  She  was  so  genuinely  interested  in  his  method 
of  painting.  She  would  not  tell  him  how  she  had 
learned  the  little  secrets  of  mixing  and  applying  color 
so  as  to  secure  certain  effects,  though  she  imparted 
her  knowledge  with  eager  pleasure.  She  had  studio 
language  at  her  tongue's  end.  She  carried  him  away 
from  Laclasse  into  an  artist's  heaven.  At  such  times 
'Mendall  nearly  lost  his  self-restraint.  Only  the  whole- 
some fear  of  being  left  to  face  an  intolerable  blank 
restrained  him. 

But  much  more  often  it  was  defiance  for  defiance 
with  him.     Occasionally  she  was  girlishly  amusing. 


THE    GAME    OF    DEFIANCE  231 

When  she  began  to  see  something  of  Laclasse  society, 
Mendall  discovered  how  accurate  was  her  appraise- 
ment of  every  creature  that  came  her  way.  She  had 
a  sense  of  humor.  She  mimicked,  impersonated,  char- 
acterized with  consummate  skill  the  people  she  met. 
Laclasse  she  declared  to  be,  "Much  sun  and  wind, 
much  money,  and  more  automobiles." 

"But  you  mean  to  become  a  part  of  it  all,"  Mendall 
said. 

"Indeed,  yes !"  she  exclaimed.  "It  is  a  place  of  pos- 
sibilities, Sefior.  They  point  to  a  mile  of  buildings  and 
tell  me,  'Here,  forty  years  ago,  the  Indians  camped/ 
Or,  'Here,  where  the  cars  run,  the  buffalo  made  holes 
in  the  ground!'  That  seems  wonderful  to  me.  At 
first,  here,  it  was  all  talk  of  'growth' ;  now  it  is  all  talk 
of  money  and  pleasure;  soon  it  will  be  much  talk  of 
culture — and  all  in  fifty  years.  Fifty  years  ago  a  little 
village — now  a  wide  city.  .  .  .  Eh,  it's  a  great 
place!" 

Mendall  had  smiled;  unconsciously  or  not,  the 
speech  was  an  imitation  of  MacAllister. 

Several  weeks  of  this  sort  of  intimacy  made  Men- 
dall hesitant.  He  was  undecided  in  just  what  guise  to 
paint  Marie.  He  had  been  drawn  away  from  his  first 
conception  of  her,  nevertheless  it  persisted,  for  it  had 
laid  a  strong  hold  on  him.  She  so  often  showed  the 
qualities  that  would  make  her  a  superb  Delilah;  a 
glowing,  compelling,  feline  courtezan.  His  concep- 
tion still  fascinated  him.  He  was  not  so  certain  as  he 
had  been  that  Marie  concealed  a  more  than  doubtful 


232  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

past,  but  he  was  still  convinced  that  she  concealed 
something,  and  with  consummate  care.  A  woman 
who  is  bent  upon  concealment  generally  has  some  such 
secret  to  guard. 

Mendall  was  a  man  of  unalterable  purpose  where  his 
work  was  concerned.  If  he  decided  to  paint  Marie 
in  the  guise  that  most  appealed  to  him,  he  would  hold 
to  his  purpose;  even  if  it  ended  in  his  losing  Marie. 
He  feared  that  he  would  lose  her ;  he  hesitated. 

It  was  a  curious  incident  that  decided  him.  One 
evening  in  looking  through  his  possessions,  he  came 
upon  a  carved  crucifix  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
Mexico.  He  hung  it  on  the  wall,  meaning  to  show  it 
to  Marie.  He  knew  that  in  spite  of  her  silence  she 
took  a  profound  interest  in  his  tales  of  the  jungle. 
When  he  found  she  permitted  it,  he  talked  to  her  of 
his  three  years'  experience  as  he  never  had  to  his  wife. 
He  knew  that  Marie  had  instantly  understood  the 
meaning  of  the  Tehuana.  She  studied  the  painting 
somberly  sometimes.  When  he  had  first  seen  Marie's 
fever-yellowed  skin,  he  had  accused  her  of  having 
originated  in  the  Isthmus,  and  he  had  defied  her  denial 
in  his  painting  of  the  jungle-pool.  The  painting  was 
locked  away,  but  Mendall  knew  she  had  not  forgotten 
it.  It  had  given  him  a  certain  satisfaction  to  talk  of 
the  jungle  while  she  listened  somberly. 

He  pointed  out  the  crucifix  to  Marie  the  next  morn- 
ing, but  he  was  not  prepared  for  what  followed.  Even 
across  the  room,  Marie  bent  the  knee  to  it,  and  crossed 
herself  rapidly.     She  went  toward  it  then,  slowly,  as 


THE   GAME   OF   DEFIANCE  233 

if  compelled,  and  kneeling  before  it,  prayed.  Mendall 
could  not  catch  the  words,  they  were  a  murmur;  her 
hands  moved  as  if  telling  her  beads.  .  .  .  She  rose 
finally,  and  with  a  genuflection  turned  away.  He  saw 
her  face  then,  grown  gray  and  curiously  immobile. 
She  went  to  the  couch  and  lay  prone. 

Mendall's  amazement  was  too  complete  at  first  for 
movement,  but  he  went  at  last  and  stood  over  her. 
She  lay  quite  still.  This  was  no  acting;  he  had  seen 
her  face. 

He  touched  her  finally.    "Marie?" 

"Let  me  be,"  she  said  dully. 

"Marie,  if  it  means  so  much  to  you,  why  haven't 
you  gone  into  Laclasse — to  St.  Cecilia's — to  any  one 
of  the  Catholic  churches?" 

She  shrank,  then  drew  herself  up.  "What  is  it  to 
you,  whether  I  pray  or  not?"  she  muttered  sullenly. 

She  twisted  herself  off  the  couch  and  went  to  the 
door,  looking  not  at  him,  but  at  the  crucifix.  Her  face 
was  still  gray.  She  crossed  herself  before  she  shut 
herself  out. 

Mendall  looked  after  her,  then  at  the  crucifix,  and 
then  he  sat  down  on  the  couch,  his  brows  still  raised 
in  surprise. 

"Well,  I  never!"  he  said. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  in  thought.  If  it  were  pos- 
sible to  accuse  Marie  of  acting,  he  would  have  done 
so,  but  that  was  out  of  the  question.  She  had  not 
been  acting,  any  more  than  she  was  when,  several 
weeks  before,  she  had  paled  at  sight  of  the  jungle- 


234  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

pool.  It  had  none  of  it  been  acting,  Mendall  decided. 
The  Marie  of  the  studio  was  Marie  herself.  A  touch 
of  bravado,  perhaps,  as  if  she  said,  "Here  am  I,  my- 
self— now  what  do  you  make  of  me?"  but  nothing 
more. 

Mendall  looked  at  the  crucifix.  "She  was  scared 
— frightened  stiff  by  her  conscience,"  he  said,  speaking 
aloud  under  the  intense  impression  Marie  had  made 
upon  him.  "She  looked  like  a  Magdalen  as  she  lay 
here.  .  .  .  I'll  paint  my  first  impression  of  her,  no 
matter  what  comes !" 

He  went  to  the  crucifix  and  took  it  down.  "But 
we'll  have  no  more  of  this,"  he  muttered.  "If  she's 
badly  enough  scared  she'll  not  dance  at  MacAllister's 
party  to-night.  She'll  lie  on  her  bed  as  she  lay  on  the 
couch — her  Scotch  blood  won't  help  her  an  iota.  I 
doubt  if  she'll  come  here  to-morrow." 


XXXV 


A  DELILAH  ON  CANVAS 


MARIE  did  dance  at  MacAUister's  party,  and 
gracefully,  as  all  Laclasse  testified.  And  she 
came  to  Mendall's  studio  the  next  morning. 

She  was  late,  for  she  had  not  appeared  at  breakfast. 
She  came  in  with  her  usual  undulating  grace,  took  a 
cigarette  and  stretched  herself  on  the  couch.  If  she 
observed  the  absence  of  the  crucifix,  she  showed  no 
sign.  Mendall  noticed,  however,  that  she  wore  about 
her  neck  the  only  ornament  he  had  ever  seen  upon 
her,  a  small  ebony  cross  attached  to  a  threadlike  chain 
of  gold.  He  decided  that  her  Scotch  blood  had  helped 
her. 

And  Mendall  received  her  as  usual.  "Tired  ?"  he 
asked,  as  he  lighted  a  match  for  her. 

"Non — a  little  sleepy,  only."  She  yawned  before 
she  put  the  cigarette  to  her  lips. 

"Did  you  enjoy  your  party?"  Mendall  continued,  as 
he  stretched  his  length  in  the  low  chair  that  was  his 
usual  seat. 

"I  enjoy  everything  my  guardian  does  for  me, 
Sefior,"  she  returned,  with  the  yellow  glint  beneath 

235 


236  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

lowered  lashes  that  was  always  a  warning  to  him  to  be 
careful. 

"What  w~:  Ihe  party  itself  like?"  he  asked. 

"A  collection  of  dull  children  who  laughed  much." 

Mendall  laughed.  The  characterization  struck  him 
as  apt.    "It  lacked  the  zest  of  the  Bal  Bullier." 

"One  could  scarcely  expect  French  abandon  at  a  La- 
classe  ball — Laclasse  is  probably  the  better  without 
it,"  she  returned  drowsily.  "It  seems  that  Madame 
Kotany  proposes  a  like  party  to  be  given  in  costume — • 
you  and  your  wife  will  be  bidden  to  that,  Senor." 

"Where  will  she  give  it?"  Mendall  asked  with  in- 
terest. 

"At  the  Country  Club.  Miss  Bagsby  comes  this 
afternoon  to  discuss  costumes  with  me."  She  was 
evidently  not  in  a  good  humor,  but  there  was  a  trace 
of  amusement  in  her  lazy  tones  when  she  added :  "I 
hear  some  of  the  gossip,  Senor — it  seems  that  your 
friend,  Madame  Bagsby,  had  intended  to  charm  La- 
classe by  the  same  device,  but  for  some  reason  aban- 
doned the  project,  and  Madame  Kotany  fell  upon  it 
and  made  it  her  own." 

"I'm  glad  I  have  had  warning,"  Mendall  said. 

"But  you  will  come,  Senor?" 

Mendall  studied  the  epitome  of  indifference  on  the 
couch.  He  wondered  if  she  was  really  so  indifferent. 
It  was  she  certainly  who  had  secured  invitations  for 
him  and  Margaret.  "Would  it  please  you  if  I  went?" 
It  had  struck  him  that  to  dance  with  Marie  would  be 


A   DELILAH    ON   CANVAS  237 

a  supreme  joy.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  permitted 
himself  to  be  personal. 

"Yes — if  you  dance  well.  Those  children  dance  by 
rule ;  there  is  no  inspiration  in  it." 

Mendall  made  no  answer,  and  she  said  nothing 
more.  He  sat  looking  at  her,  her  slim  length,  the  firm 
contour  of  her  small  pointed  breasts,  thinking  of  the 
painting  he  had  decided  to  make  of  her.  This  was  one 
of  the  occasions  when  she  looked  the  part  he  had  in 
mind,  indifferent,  languid,  and  yet  so  thoroughly  alive. 

Marie  stirred,  her  hand  outheld  for  another  ciga- 
rette, and  as  she  took  it,  he  asked  abruptly,  "You  have 
posed  before,  Senorita?" 

"Yes." 

"For  whom?"  Mendall  asked  sharply. 

Marie  looked  at  him  from  beneath  her  poised  ciga- 
rette. "I  lived  in  the  home  of  a  great  artist,  once, 
Senor.     .     .     .     But  what  is  that  to  you?" 

"How  did  he  paint  you?"  Mendall  demanded.  He 
was  thinking  that  to  paint  Marie  clothed  was  an  insult 
to  her  beautiful  body.  That  if  she  had  ever  been  a 
professional  model,  which  was  one  of  his  surmises,  no 
painter  would  have  permitted  it.  The  next  moment  he 
was  frightened  at  his  temerity,  for  his  meaning  had 
been  clear. 

To  his  surprise  she  sprang  off  the  couch,  and,  with 
the  astonishing  quickness  which  she  sometimes 
showed,  caught  up  from  a  chair  a  length  of  white  Mrs. 
Mendall  had  been  hemming  the  night  before,  and  with 


238  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

deft  fingers  banded  it  about  her  face,  gathered  it  be- 
neath her  chin  and  across  her  breast.  With  hands 
folded,  she  looked  down  on  him. 

"Thus,  Senor    ...     as  a  Sister  of  Mercy." 

Mendall  stared  at  her.  She  was  perfectly  the  part, 
thoughtful  brow,  wide,  lowered  eyelids,  firm  mouth; 
rapt,  meditative. 

"What  an  actress  you  are !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Will  you  paint  me  thus,  Senor?"  she  asked  softly; 
almost  pleadingly.  Her  whole  look  had  changed;  in- 
difference and  sensuous  languor  wiped  away. 

"No!  Something  a  deal  truer  of  you  than  that!" 
It  was  a  flash  of  defiance. 

Marie  unwound  the  white  banding  swiftly,  and, 
throwing  it  aside,  turned  again  to  the  couch.  But  be- 
fore relaxing  she  stretched  luxuriously,  her  arms  lifted 
above  her  head.  She  stood  a  moment  poised,  looking 
down  on  him,  her  eyes  agleam,  her  lip  lifted  in  a 
slight  smile,  her  expression  of  defiance :  "As  you  will, 
Senor.  If  your  knowledge  of  me  approaches  in  pro- 
fundity my  understanding  of  you,  you  will  indeed 
paint  a  wonder !" 

Mendall's  eyes  swept  her,  an  instant's  survey,  and 
then  he  was  up  and  gripping  her  lifted  arms. 

"Keep  it !"  he  commanded,  in  excitement.  "Keep  it !" 

She  pulled  her  arms  from  his  hold.  "Keep  what?" 
she  said  furiously.  "You  shall  not  place  hands  on  me !" 

"Oh,  damn!  .  .  .  Don't  you  understand?  It's 
the  pose  I  want !" 


She  stood  a  moment  poised,  looking  down 
on  him 


A   DELILAH    ON    CANVAS  239 

He  whirled  about,  seized  the  cover  of  the  couch  and 
drew  it  aside  until  it  dragged  on  the  floor.  He  caught 
up  a  pillow  and  flung  it  down  at  her  feet.  "Now, 
stand  as  you  did  a  minute  ago  when  you  looked  down 
on  me !  Imagine  that  thing  at  your  feet  is  a  man  or  a 
lion — anything  you've  captured — lying  prone ;  imagine 
your  feet  kissed,  if  you  like,  only  look  down  on  it  as 
.'ou  did  on  me !" 

Marie  stood  with  arms  lax  and  chest  heaving,  look- 
ing at  him. 

Mendall  eyed  her  steadily.  "You  have  said  to  me, 
times  out  of  number,  if  not  in  words  in  action:  'As 
you  will,  Senor.'  Now — with  your  permission — I 
'will,'  Sefiorita." 

She  looked  away  from  him,  at  the  disarranged 
couch,  at  the  object  at  her  feet,  assimilating  his  mean- 
ing; then  at  him  again.  From  the  tigerish  fury  in  her 
eyes  he  was  certain  he  had  lost  her.  It  held  her  for  a 
moment,  then  was  gone. 

When  she  spoke  it  was  quietly.  "You  think  I  de- 
serve nothing  better  than  that  ?" 

"I  can  paint  you  only  as  I  see  you,"  Mendall  re- 
turned determinedly. 

She  shrugged.  "Merely  a  Delilah  and  her  Samson ! 
I  supposed  you  more  original,"  she  said  with  limitless 
scorn.    "But,  'as  you  will,  Senor.'  " 

Marie  stood  quietly  while  Mendall  collected  his  ma- 
terials ;  she  even  made  a  suggestion.  "It  would  be  best 
if  you  placed  all  this" — her  gesture  included  herself — 


240  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"upon  the  dais,  and  you  painted  from  a  greater  dis- 
tance." 

"You're  right,"  Mendall  agreed. 

When  he  had  chosen  his  light  and  placed  her,  she 
took  the  pose  so  perfectly  that  Mendall  murmured  his 
delight  as  he  worked. 

He  sketched  her  in  that  day,  while  she  looked  down 
on  him  with  smoldering  eyes.  Even  in  his  absorption 
Mendall  noticed  that  it  was  a  long  time  before  she 
breathed  regularly. 


XXXVI 

VERY  NATURALLY  A  WOMAN 

IT  was  quite  a  different  Marie  who  received  Clare 
Bagsby  that  afternoon  on  the  terrace,  a  semi- 
girlish  vision  in  a  loose  cream-colored  gown,  with  hair 
banded,  and  waist  outlined  by  a  gold  cord. 

Yet  even  with  the  June  heat  simmering  about  her, 
Marie  had  not  discarded  her  favorite  color ;  the  ribbon 
that  held  her  hair  was  red.  But  the  green  background 
of  trees  relieved  the  touch  of  vivid  color;  Marie  Ogil- 
vie  had  gowned  herself  with  her  usual  artistry,  Clare 
thought.  The  ache  over  her  own  plainness  that  some- 
times dominated  Clare's  good  sense,  made  itself  felt  as 
she  looked  at  Marie's  luxuriance.  And  there  was  also 
a  deeper  hurt  tugging  at  Clare.  It  made  her  cordi- 
ality a  little  brusk. 

"You're  lovely,  as  usual,"  she  said,  in  her  downright 
fashion.  "How  you  manage  to  wear  red  in  your  hair 
and  have  it  becoming  passes  me.  I  don't  dare  let  it 
touch  me.  Still,  your  hair  is  bronze — except  when  you 
stand  under  the  light.  I  noticed  last  night  whenever 
the  electrics  struck  it,  it  was  pure  gold." 

"But  your  hair  is  definitely  red,  a  wonderful  shade, 
and  mine  indeterminate,"  Marie  returned  gracefully. 

241 


242  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

"Your  color  should  be  a  golden  brown  in  winter  and 
white  always  in  the  summer,  as  it  is  now — and  by 
night  always  a  green." 

"Green !  Why,  I  never  had  a  green  evening  dress  in 
my  lifer 

"Nevertheless  it  is  your  color." 

"I  can't  believe  it,  but  perhaps  you're  right.  I  met 
three  of  the  girls  down-town  this  morning,  hunting 
colors  for  their  costumes,  and  they'd  already  settled  on 
the  shades  you  said  would  suit  them.  They  were  rav- 
ing about  your  taste.  It  was  funny,  last  night,  how 
you  settled  things  for  them — like  a  stage  costumer.  I 
decided  I'd  make  my  call  promptly  and  persuade  you 
to  help  me." 

"I  hoped  that  you  would  come — that  the  heat  would 
not  frighten  you." 

"You'll  have  no  trouble,  because  you're  beautiful,  or 
what's  better,  you're  unusual,"  Clare  said  in  frank  ad- 
miration, "but  it's  always  a  question  with  me.  I 
haven't  an  idea  what  to  put  on  for  a  costume  dance  in 
June.  The  stately  things  are  too  hot,  and  the  peasant 
costumes  are  clumsy.  Most  of  the  girls  will  be  flowers, 
or  butterflies,  lots  of  gauze  and  so  on,  but  imagine  me 
as  a  daffadowndilly  or  a  butterfly !" 

Marie  was  convinced  that  it  was  not  concern  over 
her  costume  that  had  brought  Clare  to  her  that  hot  day. 
But  Clare's  object  would  reveal  itself.  Marie  entered 
with  graceful  zest  into  the  question  of  costumes. 

"I  should  want  for  you  something  quite  original," 
she  said. 


VERY   NATURALLY   A   WOMAN      243 

"But  what  is  there  that  hasn't  been  tried  over  and 
over  again?" 

Marie  glanced  at  Clare.  Clare  was  right,  she  was  a 
difficult  subject.  She  looked  off  thoughtfully,  through 
the  opening  in  the  trees,  through  a  gap  in  the  hills,  out 
to  open  country,  acres  and  acres  of  wheat  and  corn. 

"I  should  go  as  Nebraska !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Nebraska !" 

"Oui — just  that  out  there!" — Marie  pointed  with  a 
dramatic  gesture — "I  should  have  an  underdress  of 
satin  exactly  the  color  of  a  ripe  ear  of  corn,  and  over 
it  a  thin  green  of  the  shade  of  unripe  wheat.  Your 
beautiful  hair  I  should  dress — so — wide  on  the  sides 
and  low  on  your  brow,  and  band  the  whole  with  green 
wheat  ears,  a  wreath  made  on  little  wires.  The  green 
overdress  I  should  make  beautiful,  the  hanging  sleeves 
like  the  long  pointed  leaves  of  corn,  the  broad  parts 
brought  together  at  the  shoulder.  I  should  take  an 
actual  corn  leaf  as  a  pattern,  and  wherever  I  could, 
like  beads,  I  should  use  grains  of  ripe  yellow  corn,  a 
little  line  of  them  to  outline  a  high  corsage.  I  should 
string  some  as  a  necklace,  use  some  as  rosettes  on  my 
green  shoes.  And  on  my  green  gauze  fan,  I  should 
have  in  letters  of  gold,  'Nebraska.'  " 

Though  impressed,  Clare  laughed.  "I'd  look  like  a 
state  fair  exhibit !" 

"Not  if  I  stood  before  Miss  Fuchs  with  a  bludgeon 
while  it  became  designed !  .  .  .  You  desired  orig- 
inality. Yours  would  be  the  most  remarked  upon 
costume.     The  heart  of  every  Nebraska  man  in  the 


244  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

room  would  warm  to  you.  Every  farmer  who  de- 
posits in  your  father's  bank  would  read  of  it  with 
delight.     .     .     .     Flowers!    Pouf!" 

Clare's  peal  of  laughter  brought  Mendall  to  the 
window  above.  And  having  been  drawn  from  his 
work,  he  remained,  looking  down  on  this  Marie,  play- 
ing with  another  girl.  For  the  time  being,  the  thing 
he  was  painting  seemed  an  unpardonable  insult  to 
Marie. 

"And  how  will  you  go,  wonderful  person?"  Clare 
asked,  sobering. 

"As  a  Spanish  dancing  girl." 

"You'll  be  fascinating,"  Clare  said.  She  looked 
away  from  Marie,  for  the  hurt  she  had  forgotten  for 
a  moment  was  tugging  at  her  again.  "It's  going  to  be 
a  pretty  party,"  she  said,  a  little  absently.  "Tables  set 
outside,  and  lanterns  strung  all  over  the  grounds.  And 
it's  the  right  kind  of  a  party,  the  married  set  as  well 
as  the  younger  crowd.  You'll  meet  a  lot  of  people  you 
haven't  met  yet."  She  looked  at  Marie  again,  with  her 
father's  kindly  expression.  "You  know,  I  suppose, 
you're  going  to  be  a  success — provided  the  women 
don't  get  down  on  you.  No  woman  can  do  anything 
in  an  American  town,  if  the  women  are  against  her. 
.  .  .  If  you  manage  right,  you'll  marry  some  nice 
Laclasse  man — some  day." 

"It  is  best,  of  course,  to  marry,"  Marie  returned 
judicially. 

Her  eyes  had  narrowed  slightly.  Her  sure  instinct 
told  her  that  Clare  Bagsby  was  approaching  the  object 


VERY   NATURALLY   A   WOMAN      245 

of  her  call.    If  her  look  had  not  been  so  kindly,  Marie 
might  have  taken  her  speech  as  a  veiled  threat. 

"I  wonder  if  you  are  as  doubtful  about  marrying  as 
I  am?"  Clare  continued. 

"How  do  you  mean  'doubtful'?  .  .  .  Afraid 
that  one's  heart  may  be  torn?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Yes — I  suppose  that's  ex- 
actly what  I  do  mean,"  Clare  answered,  flushing. 

"You  think  much  of  marriage,  then,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

Clare  hesitated,  then  gathered  decision.  "I've 
thought  of  it  pretty  steadily  for  two  years.  .  .  . 
I  have  been  engaged  for  a  year — to  Ellis  Kraup." 

"Ah,  then  I  understand,"  Marie  said  softly.  It  was 
plain  now — why  Clare  had  come,  and  what  troubled 
her.  It  seemed  a  strange  thing  to  Marie — for  a  girl  to 
come  in  this  frank  way  to  the  woman  who  had  fasci- 
nated her  affianced ;  so  wanting  in  finesse. 

Clare  went  on  steadily,  though  she  had  grown  crim- 
son. "I've  been  engaged  and  unengaged,  and  engaged 
again,  to  Ellis,  for  though  he's  wild  sometimes,  he's 
the  only  man  I've  ever  loved.  .  .  .  I've  managed 
to  keep  our  engagement  a  secret — because — well,  be- 
cause I  wasn't  sure — about — what  was  best." 

Marie  thought  of  the  letter  from  Ellis  Kraup  that 
was  locked  in  her  desk  up-stairs,  an  impassioned  letter, 
written  after  the  dance  the  night  before. 

"I  think  this  way  of  marriage,"  Marie  said.  "I 
think — if  one  loves  enough — it  is  worth  the  trying. 
And  even  if  one's  heart  is  torn — as  is  frequently  the 
case  in  time — one  has  at  least  clasped  what  one  has 


246  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

desired."  She  straightened  into  sudden  impassioned 
earnestness.  "Ah,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  well  worth  it! 
I  say  that  to  myself  all  the  time :  'Why  not  have  hap- 
piness for  a  little  space  at  least?'  Even  if  the  world 
falls,  can  any  one  ever  take  away  from  you  that  little 
time  of  happiness?    Ah,  no !    That  is  yours!" 

Clare's  eyes  kindled,  but  she  said,  "There  is  so  much 
to  consider." 

A  faint  smile  dawned  in  Marie's  yellow  eyes.  "Still 
we  fight  for  the  man  of  our  choice.  My  judgment  of 
the  American  woman  is,  that  she  considers  much  and 
does  her  own  deciding — and  ends  in  being  very  natu- 
rally a  woman.  And  of  the  American  man — that  he 
pretends  much  without  knowing  it;  the  attitude  of  his 
women  drives  him  to  it.  He  also  concludes  in  being 
very  naturally  a  man.  ...  So  there  it  is !"  She 
shrugged. 

"You  don't  like  American  men,  then?"  Clare  asked 
with  interest. 

"On  the  contrary  I  have  a  great  liking  for  them. 
They  live  less  by  rule  than  the  men  I  have  known. 
.  .  .  But,  Mademoiselle,  I  became  old  when  very 
young;  I  do  not  care  for  boys;  they  do  not  interest  me. 
I  do  not  even  care  to  play  with  them  a  little"  The 
look  Marie  gave  Clare  was  a  very  steady  one. 

Though  confused,  Clare  nodded  decidedly.  "I  be- 
lieve women  are  growing  to  be  better  friends  to  one  an- 
other," she  remarked,  with  apparent  irrelevance.  "It 
was  that  feeling  made  me  come  out  to  see  you.  .  .  . 
I  hope  we  are  going  to  be  real  friends." 


VERY   NATURALLY   A   WOMAN      247 

"That  would  give  me  pleasure,"  Marie  returned 
"Your  face  pleased  me  when  I  first  saw  it.  .  .  t 
You  speak  of  friendship  among  women,  much  as  Mis| 
O'Rourke." 

"So  you  know  Freda?" 

"Yes." 

"Poor  Freda,"  Clare  said  with  feeling.  "Women 
haven't  shown  her  much  kindness — "  She  stopped, 
remembering  MacAllister's  part  in  Freda  O'Rourke's 
tragedy. 

Marie  passed  over  Clare's  significant  pause.  "It  is 
with  her  more  a  hope  of  what  will  be  among  women,  is 
it  not?  Quite  a  different  state  of  things  between  men 
and  women?" 

"Yes — Freda's  a  feminist.  I  go  to  see  her  some- 
times," Clare  confessed.  "It's  been  my  talks  with 
Freda  that  have  made  me  think  such  a  lot  about  mar- 
riage." 

"Such  talk  moves  me  not  at  all,  Mademoiselle. 
Women  are  not  friends  to  one  another — least  of  all  re- 
garding men.    I  think  they  never  will  be." 

"In  spite  of  our  pact !"  Clare  said  smilingly. 

Marie  did  not  smile.  "Do  not  go  away  with  too 
good  an  opinion  of  me,  Mademoiselle  Clare.  You 
have,  as  you  think,  been  frank  with  me.  I  shall  be  so 
with  you :  you  have  come  to  me  because  you  fight  for 
the  man  you  love.  And  I — I  am  one  of  those  who  will 
steal — even  a  man — if  I  desired  him  sufficiently." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  When  it  came  to  the  point  you'd 
do  no  such  thing,  because  you've  got  brains  enough  to 


248  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

distinguish  between  right  and  wrong.    You're  the  kind 
would  lie  awake  with  a  troubled  conscience." 

Marie's  hand  went  to  the  cross  at  her  throat.  "Why 
do  you  say  that?"  she  demanded,  with  her  tigerish 
look. 

"It's  one  of  the  things  I've  guessed  about  you — just 
as  you've  probably  decided  some  things  about  me." 
Clare  leaned  over  and  kissed  Marie's  cheek.  "I  like 
you,  you  see,  Marie  Ogilvie;  I  don't  know  why,  but  I 
do."     . 

Marie  looked  into  Clare's  face  with  the  shrinkingly 
defiant  gaze  of  the  animal  that  hates  to  be  touched,  but 
under  the  steady  kindliness  of  Clare's  eyes,  her  own 
dropped  and  her  lips  quivered ;  Clare  thought  she  was 
going  to  weep.  But  the  next  moment  Marie  had  re- 
gained her  composure.  She  shrugged.  "Men  become 
mad  over  me,  and  women  stand  back  from  me;  it  will 
be  so  even  in  Laclasse,  I  think,  so  I  thank  you  for  an 
unusual  graciousness."  She  made  the  statement  with 
her  wonted  grace  and  poise. 

"Well,  I  am  your  friend.  That's  settled,"  Clare  de- 
clared bruskly.  "If  I  can  do  anything  for  you,  ever,  I 
will." 

"Thank  you,"  Marie  murmured. 

"And  I  hope  you'll  come  and  see  me.  I  want  you  to 
meet  my  Dad — he's  the  best  ever.  .  .  .  Will  you 
tell  Mrs.  Mendall  I  came  to  see  her,  too  ?" 

"She  will  be  sorry  she  stayed  so  late  at  her  school 
to-day." 


VERY    NATURALLY    A    WOMAN      249 

"Yes,  the  colored  woman  told  me.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
MendalFs  an  awfully  good  sort — I  like  her." 

Marie  said  nothing.  She  went  to  the  driveway  with 
her  guest,  waving  her  an  adieu  as  her  car  disappeared. 

She  went  up  to  her  room  then,  slowly,  and  shutting 
herself  in  took  Ellis  Kraup's  letter  from  her  desk.  She 
shrugged  as  she  sat  down  to  write  her  answer,  a 
charmingly  worded  note  that  gave  him  permission  to 
come  and  walk  with  her  over  the  Bellevue  hills. 


XXXVII 

THE  COSTUME  DANCE 

MRS.  KOTANY'S  costume  dance  was,  as  Clare 
Bagsby  had  said,  a  beautiful  party,  cleverly 
conceived  and  well  carried  out,  favored  by  a  spell  of 
coolness  and  broadly  smiled  upon  by  the  moon.  The 
strings  of  Japanese  lanterns  looped  about  the  veranda 
and  hung  from  tree  to  tree  were  paled  by  the  white 
light  of  the  moon,  as  were  the  firefly  gleams  that  dot- 
ted the  grass  slopes  about  the  club  house.  There  were 
those  who  between  dances  wandered  out  to  the  links, 
and  here,  too,  firefly  lanterns  came  and  went. 

As  Clare  remarked  to  Marie:  it  was  a  "good-by" 
party,  for  the  following  week  feminine  Laclasse  went 
its  various  ways,  some  to  eastern  resorts,  many  to  the 
Great  Lakes,  some  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  leaving  their 
menkind  to  summer  bachelorhood  in  Laclasse.  Mrs. 
Bagsby  had  changed  her  plans  and  was  going  east; 
Mrs.  Kotany  to  her  lakeside  cottage ;  the  Nasts  to  San 
Francisco. 

"But  you  and  I  stay  here,"  Marie  said. 

"Yes — I'm  going  to  keep  house  for  Dad,"  Clare  an- 
swered, with  a  note  of  satisfaction.  "We're  going  to 
have  a  beautiful  time  together." 

250 


THE    COSTUME    DANCE  251 

"I  am  happy  to  stay  here,  also." 

Clare  thought  that  certainly  something  was  making 
Marie  happy.  There  was  a  subdued  radiance  about 
her  to-night.  They  had  come  together  for  a  moment 
on  the  lawn  where  the  groups  of  arrivals  were  shaking 
hands  and  chatting.  Marie  was  having  her  second  in- 
troduction to  Laclasse,  in  which  the  Mendalls  were 
sharing.  Marie  certainly  had  reason  to  be  pleased  with 
the  attention  which  was  being  shown  her;  it  was  quite 
evident  that  she  was  popular ;  she  was  already  engaged 
for  every  dance  with  which  she  would  consent  to  part. 
Still,  Clare  felt  that  it  was  not  her  social  success  alone 
that  gave  Marie  her  radiant  look. 

Clare  had  watched  Marie  keenly  when  the  men  had 
crowded  about  her.  Her  answer  to  Ellis  Kraup  was 
decided :  "You  may  have  one  dance  early  in  the  eve- 
ning," Clare  heard  her  say.  "I  do  not  wish  to  dance 
much  after  supper."  It  was  her  answer  to  almost 
every  one.  Clare  wondered  for  whom  she  was  saving 
the  latter  part  of  the  evening. 

Ellis  turned  away  and  came  at  once  to  Clare's  side. 
"Don't  you  forget — we  have  the  first  dance  and  the 
supper  dance  together,  Tod,  and  all  you'll  give  me  be- 
tween," he  said  gravely.  He  had  called  her  by  her  pet 
name,  and  Clare  flushed  with  pleasure. 

Ellis  kept  by  her  side  after  that — until  Mrs.  Kotany 
called  him  away  to  meet  a  visiting  girl.  He  was  look- 
ing his  best,  Clare  thought,  graver  than  usual,  less  like 
a  thoughtless  boy.  She  was  glad  that  he  was  slenderly 
built  and  brown,  that  he  would  never  be  huge  and 


252  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

florid  like  his  father.  His  father  had  not  been  asked 
to  Mrs.  Kotany's  party,  the  distinction  frequently 
drawn  between  the  first  and  second  generation  of  the 
newly  rich. 

Clare  continued  to  watch  Marie.  Marie  had  favored 
no  one  so  far — not  until  Mendall  with  his  quiet  air  of 
assurance  drew  her  away  from  the  laughing  circle  in 
which  she  stood,  brilliant  but  unmirthful.  It  struck 
Clare  for  the  first  time  that  she  had  never  heard  Marie 
laugh. 

Mendall  stood,  with  head  bent,  talking  to  Marie,  and 
as  Clare  watched  them  it  struck  her  disagreeably  that 
here  might  be  the  secret  of  Marie's  radiance.  Clare 
had  often  wondered  if  it  would  be  possible  for  Marie 
to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  Carl  Mendall  and 
avoid  complications.  She  was  the  type  to  fascinate 
such  a  man  as  Mendall,  and  he  was  the  sort  to  turn  the 
head  of  almost  any  girl,  handsome,  daring  and  irre- 
sponsible. So  far  the  women  and  girls  Marie  had  met 
were  dazzled  by  her,  but  she  was  certain  very  soon  to 
have  enemies;  it  would  be  a  pity  if  it  should  occur  to 
others  that  there  was  food  here  for  gossip. 

As  she  continued  to  watch  them,  Clare  realized  with 
consternation  that  she  had  never  seen  two  people  who 
appeared  so  completely  suited  to  each  other.  Their 
costumes  accentuated  that  something  which  proclaims 
a  racial  likeness :  Marie  in  her  Carmen  dress  and  Men- 
dall as  a  Spanish  gipsy.  Clare  had  always  thought  there 
must  be  a  Latin  strain  in  Carl  Mendall,  and  in  Marie  it 
was  unmistakable.    To-night  he  was  superbly  Latin; 


THE   COSTUME   DANCE  253 

dark,  carelessly  arrogant,  graceful.  He  was  com- 
pletely at  ease  in  this  collection  of  people,  most  of 
whom  had  hitherto  been  mere  society  names  to  him. 
He  had  walked  up  to  Mrs.  Bagsby  who  was  delicately 
lovely  in  her  bride-rose  costume,  and  had  asked  for  a 
dance.  When  she  had  refused — she  could  do  nothing 
else  than  refuse  with  her  husband's  eyes  on  her — he 
had  turned  away  with  an  air  of  complete  unconcern 
which  Clare  knew  was  not  assumed.  He  had  secured 
what  partners  he  wished,  then,  quietly  waiting  for  his 
opportunity,  had  taken  possession  of  Marie.  As  they 
stood  together  his  gaze  enveloped  her,  his  artist's  look 
of  appreciation,  and  something  more — something 
grave  and  intent. 

He  and  Marie  were  so  noticeable  that  others  beside 
herself  were  watching  them.  Clare  saw  that  her  step- 
mother's eyes  were  fixed  on  them.  She  slipped  away 
from  the  group  of  girls  who  surrounded  her,  and 
joined  the  two. 

It  was  an  interruption,  and  Marie  gave  Clare  the 
narrow  look  Clare  disliked.  Mendall's  brows  came  to- 
gether, then  smoothed,  as  soon  as  he  noticed  her  cos- 
tume. 

"I  wish  I  had  painted  you  in  green,"  he  said,  with 
genuine  regret. 

The  remark  struck  Clare  as  so  like  him  that  she 
laughed.  "I  suppose  we're  all  simply  studies  for  your 
brush." 

He  glanced  up  at  the  subdued  lights  of  the  veranda 
topped  by  the  low  dark  line  of  roof,  then  at  the  group- 


254  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

ing  of  costumes  on  the  lawn,  their  blended  colors 
whitened  by  the  moonlight  and  warmed  by  the  red  of 
many  lanterns.  "I  should  have  said  that  no  amount  of 
artistry  could  transform  these  ordinary  surroundings 
into  something  beautiful,  but  it's  been  done.  I  like 
this  effect  of  cold  and  warm  light."  He  looked  down 
at  Marie's  costume.  "You  know,  I  suppose,  Senorita, 
that  you  are  the  only  touch  of  flame  in  the  combina- 
tion?" 

"And  your  sash,  Senor." 

"True,  Senorita — for  once  in  my  life  I  have  forgot- 
ten myself."  They  spoke  like  people  who  knew  and 
understood  each  other  well. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Mendall?"  Clare  asked,  a  little 
bruskly. 

Mendall  pointed  her  out.  She  stood  near  Mrs. 
Kotany,  and  Clare  was  glad  to  see  that  she  was  talk- 
ing to  her  father  in  her  pretty  dimpled  way.  She  was 
so  small  that  she  had  to  look  up  even  at  Bagsby.  She 
looked  as  young  as  any  girl  there. 

"How  lovely  she  is  to-night!"  Clare  exclaimed,  in 
real  admiration.  "Like  a  little  fairy.  .  .  .  Did 
you  design  her  dress,  too,  Marie?" 

"Yes,  but  under  many  difficulties.  Her  dignity  ob- 
jected to  being  a  Titania,  until  Senor,  here,  begged 
that  she  be  such." 

"She  was  for  declining  until  it  entered  her  wise  little 
head  that  it  would  be  good  policy  to  come,"  Mendall 
explained.  "Then,  Margaret-like,  she  swallowed  her 
disdain  of  short  skirts,  and  gossamer  wings.     I  hope 


THE    COSTUME    DANCE  255 

it  won't  be  dull  for  her — she  doesn't  know  much  about 
the  new  dances." 

"We'll  see  she  has  a  good  time,"  Clare  said  in  her 
kindly  way. 

Marie  said  nothing,  but  Mendall  looked  pleased. 
'That's  good  of  you." 

Clare  knew  that  he  was  fond  of  his  wife,  and  also 
that  he  was  capable  of  forgetting  her  completely.  He 
would  probably  dance  every  dance,  for  he  was  a  su- 
perb dancer.  She  hoped  he  would  not  dance  too  often 
with  Marie.  The  first  long-drawn  notes  of  a  one-step 
had  already  broken  up  the  groups  about  them;  the 
dancing  had  begun. 

Clare  remained  by  Marie's  side.  "Isn't  Mr.  MacAl- 
lister  coming  to-night?"  she  asked. 

"Yes— later." 

"He  doesn't  dance,  does  he?"  Clare  had  often 
wondered  how  MacAllister's  saturninity  managed  to 
adapt  itself  to  Marie. 

"Dance!  Non!  My  guardian  has  far  too  much 
sense  to  dance!"  Marie  exclaimed,  with  her  usual  quick 
loyalty. 

"He  seems  to  want  you  to  be  gay,  though." 

"Eh,  perhaps!  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  am  not  so  gay 
as  I  seem." 

"Marie  as  she  seems,  and  Marie  as  she  is,  are  two 
different  people,"  Mendall  remarked  coolly. 

Clare  expected  Marie  to  give  him  her  narrow  look, 
but  she  did  not.  "And  the  real  Marie  is  better  than 
the  seeming,  is  she  not,  Sefior?"  she  asked  lightly. 


256  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"She  is  and  she  isn't,"  Mendall  returned. 

"You  are  making  progress,  Senor!"  she  said,  in  the 
same  faintly  sarcastic  way.    "But  now  we  dance !" 

She  whirled  away  from  them  with  a  pirouette  that 
spread  her  flame  red  skirt  as  widely  as  a  ballet  girl's, 
and  dipped  in  a  courtesy  before  Mr.  Kotany  who,  with 
Ellis  Kraup,  was  descending  the  steps  of  the  veranda. 
She  was  evidently  going  to  have  the  first  dance  with 
their  staid  host,  for  she  went  away  on  his  arm. 


XXXVIII 


"you  know  me  not  at  all" 


ELLIS  KRAUP  was  waiting  for  Marie  when  the 
time  came  for  their  dance.  He  sat  on  the  ver- 
anda with  Mrs.  Mendall,  and  both  were  silent,  for  the 
most  part,  for  they  were  both  absorbed  by  their 
thoughts. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  not  been  allowed  to  sit  alone  for 
a  moment ;  her  hostess  had  brought  her  partners,  and 
so  had  Clare;  but  the  evening  had  become  merely  a 
mechanical  performance.  She  was  thinking  of  Marie 
and  her  husband  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 

It  had  broken  upon  Mrs.  Mendall  with  the  force  of 
a  shock  that  Marie  was  fascinating.  The  girl  who 
smiled  over  her  fan  and  danced  like  an  inspiration, 
who  seemed  to  charm  every  one  who  came  near  her, 
was  an  astonishing  revelation  to  Mrs.  Mendall.  The 
papers  had  called  Marie  Ogilvie  charming,  but  she 
had  not  believed  it  possible.  She  had  thought  that 
Laclasse  was  simply  entertained  by  Marie's  peculiari- 
ties, and  mindful  of  MacAllister's  money.  To  her 
Marie  was  repellent;  she  had  never  been  able  to  see 
her  in  any  other  light. 

257 


258  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  been  amazed,  and  then,  as  she 
had  watched  Mendall  and  Marie  make  a  marvelous 
thing  of  the  hesitation  waltz,  there  had  come  over  her 
the  conviction  that  Marie  had  fascination,  and  of  a 
dangerous  sort;  of  the  sort  that  would  appeal  to  Men- 
dall; that  would  appeal  to  most  men.  Anxiety  had 
taken  hold  on  her.  It  would  be  a  fearful  thing  if  he 
became  entangled  with  this  girl!  .  .  .  And  Mrs. 
Mendall  realized,  with  amazement  at  her  own  blind- 
ness, that  she  had  given  the  two  every  opportunity  for 
intimacy.  If  her  husband  had  escaped  the  spell  Marie 
appeared  to  have  laid  on  others,  it  had  not  been  be- 
cause he  had  been  guarded.  Of  late  she  had  been  so 
happy,  and  so  busy  with  her  work  in  Laclasse,  and 
Marie  had  been  absent  so  much  in  the  afternoons  and 
evenings  with  MacAllister,  that  she  had  not  even  no- 
ticed whether  her  husband  and  Marie  were  as  antag- 
onistic as  they  used  to  be. 

The  evening  had  become  a  torment  to  Mrs.  Men- 
dall. She  would  be  in  misery  until  she  could  satisfy 
herself  that  she  was  simply  frightened  without  rea- 
son. When  she  thought  of  the  last  happy  six  weeks, 
she  was  certain  she  was  frightened  without  reason; 
when  she  watched  the  absorbed  way  in  which  Mendall 
danced  with  Marie,  she  felt  that  trouble  was  upon  her 
again.  Her  throat  tightened  as  she  thought  of  the  night 
when  Mendall  had  come  to  her  with  promises  that  had 
lifted  her  out  of  misery  into  happiness.  ...  It 
had  been  like  her  wedding  night  repeated.    .    .    .    She 


"YOU    KNOW    ME    NOT    AT    ALL"     259 

looked  somberly  at  Marie  when  she  came  out  to  the 
veranda. 

Marie  had  danced  every  dance  so  far;  no  one  had 
been  able  to  secure  even  an  interval  with  her  in  the 
moonlight.  And  now,  as  she  came  out  of  the  ball- 
room, she  was  shrugging  away  Harmon  Kent's  sug- 
gestion that  they  go  out  to  the  links. 

"Walk  while  the  music  is  calling!    Ah,  no!" 

When  Ellis  sprang  up  and  eagerly  claimed  her,  she 
had  the  same  answer  for  him.  "No — I  do  not  wish  to 
walk.    After  supper  I  may — now  I  am  not  tired." 

She  certainly  looked  unwearied  as  she  stood  playing 
writh  her  fan.  Exertion  had  not  even  flushed  her 
creamy  skin.  The  huge  comb  that  fastened  her  man- 
tilla had  not  shifted;  she  looked  cool,  unruffled — un- 
like Ellis  who  was  warmly  flushed. 

He  drew  her  aside.  "You  must  come!"  he  said. 
"You  won't  see  me,  and  you  won't  answer  my  letters. 
I  can't  endure  it  any  longer !" 

Marie  lifted  her  fan  to  hide  his  face  from  Harmon 
Kent's  curiosity.  "I  told  you,  it  is  quite  useless,"  she 
returned  decidedly. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  Clare  the  truth  to-night.  You've 
got  to  hear  me !" 

Marie  looked  at  him  for  a  moment ;  then  she  furled 
her  fan.    "As  you  will." 

They  crossed  the  lawn  and  went  down  the  slope  to 
the  links.  When  they  reached  the  shadow  of  the  big 
catalpa  in  the  hollow,  Marie  stopped.  "Now  what  is 
it  you  wish  to  say?"  she  demanded. 


260  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

Ellis  had  grown  very  white.  "What  I've  told  you 
over  and  over  again  in  my  letters :  that  I  love  you,  and 
that  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  chance.  ...  I  mean 
to  be  honest  with  Clare — I'm  going  to  tell  her  the 
truth.  .  .  .  She's  fine,  Clare  is ;  she  wouldn't  hold 
me  a  minute  if  she  thought  I  really  loved  some  one 
else.  .  .  .  And  Clare's  no  cat ;  she  wouldn't  hold 
it  against  you  if  I  tell  her  just  how  it's  been.  We  grew 
up  together,  Clare  and  I,  so  I  know  just  what  she's 
like.  We've  always  gone  together,  and  our  being  en- 
gaged came  about  naturally.  Clare  sort  of  understood, 
too,  always,  when  I  didn't  do  right.  She's  kept  me  a 
good  deal  straighter  than  the  fool  kind  of  girl  who, 
though  she  knows  better,  insists  always  on  putting  a 
halo  about  a  fellow's  head  so  he  has  to  appear  the  angel 
he  never  is.  I'm  fond  of  Clare — I'll  always  feel  she's 
my  best  friend — but  it's  never  been  the.  big  thing  I  feel 
for  you."  His  speech  was  boyishly  profound  in  its 
sincerity. 

"But  I  do  not  love  you  in  the  least — I  never  by  any 
possibility  could  love  you  an  iota,"  Marie  said  firmly. 

"You  say  that  out  of  consideration  for  Clare." 

"You  do  me  too  much  honor.  I  am  no  more  an 
angel  than  you.  What  I  long  for  I  will  have — in  spite 
of  everything.     .     .     .     You  know  me  not  at  all." 

"I  don't  care  who  or  what  you  are — I  love  you!" 
Ellis  reiterated  passionately.  "I  mean  to  be  free — so  I 
can  make  you  love  me." 

Marie  drew  an   impatient  breath,   then   continued 


"YOU    KNOW    ME    NOT    AT    ALL"     261 

steadily.  "And  your  father — what  would  he  say?  I 
am  a  Scotchwoman,  am  I  not?  I  am  Monsieur  Mac- 
Allister's  ward.    I  am  of  the  enemy's  camp." 

Marie  saw  his  face  grow  dark.  "I  don't  take  much 
stock  in  his — his  prejudices,"  he  said  sullenly.  "I  told 
him  so  the  other  day.  Father's  terribly  cut  up  over*  the 
war  and  the  state  of  things.  .  .  .  But  I'm  not  de- 
pendent on  father — I  have  a  business  of  my  own."  He 
changed  to  pleading:  "Marie,  you  were  nice  to  me  in 
the  beginning — before  you  knew  about  Clare.  You  let 
me  come  once;  you  wouldn't  have  done  that  if  you 
hadn't  cared  a  little — " 

He  tried  to  put  his  arms  about  her,  but  she  twisted 
aside.  "Will  nothing  convince  you !"  she  said,  in  ex- 
asperation. "You  force  me  to  the  truth!  ...  I 
was,  as  you  say,  'nice'  to  you  in  the  beginning,  because 
I  was  very  certain  that  you  had  been  set  to  discover  all 
you  could  about  me.  I  let  you  come,  even  after  I  knew 
about  your  engagement,  because  I  wished  to  discover 
something  from  you,  and  I  succeeded.  You  had  lis- 
tened to  many  ill  conjectures  about  me,  and  you  came 
on  a  voyage  of  discovery,  and,  in  one  short  afternoon, 
fell  in  love  with  me.  I  am  experienced,  Monsieur — 
you  are  too  impetuous  and  too  honest  a  boy  for  such 
missions." 

Ellis  stood  in  crimson  silence,  and  Marie  observed 
his  confusion  for  a  few  moments.  She  came  closer 
then,  her  face  lifted  to  his;  the  moonlight  sharpened 
her  features  and  deepened  the  shadows  beneath  her 


262  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

eyes,  making  her  look  older,  "experienced,"  as  she  had 
said.  Even  in  his  distress  and  confusion  Ellis  was  re- 
minded of  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her — riding  up 
Broad  Street  in  MacAllister's  car,  haggard  and  thin- 
cheeked. 

Marie  spoke  more  gently.  "I  am  sorry  that  I  have 
hurt  you,  but  I  am  fighting  for  something  I  wish  very 
much  to  have.  You  were  not  sincere  in  the  beginning. 
I  think  now  you  are,  and  because  I  wish  you  to  under- 
stand what  I  mean  when  I  say  'it  is  useless,'  I  will  con- 
fide something  to  you :  Monsieur  Ellis,  I  love  a  man  so 
utterly  that  my  heart  aches  with  it.  I  am  both  happy 
and  in  very  great  anxiety  all  the  time.  I  have  no  right 
to  my  love — nevertheless  I  love  completely."  She 
lifted  her  hands  and  pressed  them  to  her  breast,  a  ges- 
ture dramatic  in  its  intensity.  Her  voice  had  grown 
soft  and  thick :    "It  is  all  of  me,  Monsieur." 

"Does  he  live  here?"  Ellis  asked  huskily. 

Her  hands  left  her  breast,  lifting  in  a  lighter  ges- 
ture. "Here  or  there — what  does  it  matter!"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  more  of  her  usual  manner.  "Monsieur 
Ellis,  think  no  more  about  me.  .  .  .  And  do  not 
throw  away  the  beautiful  thing  which  you  have.  This 
madness  for  me !  Pouf !  It  will  burn  out  like  a  little 
candle." 

Ellis  turned  and  looked  into  the  whitened  distance. 
"If  you  care  for  somebody  else,  I  suppose — it's — no 
use — "  he  said  unsteadily. 

"I  have  told  you  the  very  truth,  Monsieur." 


"YOU    KNOW    ME    NOT    AT    ALL"     263 

He  gathered  himself  together.  "We  may  as  well 
go  back.  .  .  .  I'll  have  to  get  through  the  evening 
— somehow." 

They  walked  up  the  slope  in  silence. 


XXXIX 


LA  DE  LA  GUARDA 


MENDALL  had  seen  Marie  and  Ellis  go  down 
to  the  links.  When  they  came  out  from  the 
shadow  of  the  catalpa  and  started  up  the  slope  to  the 
club  house,  he  went  to  meet  them. 

"Mrs.  Kotany  has  been  looking  for  you,"  he  said  to 
Marie.  "The  next  dance  is  the  supper  dance,  and  she 
wants  ours  to  come  afterward."  He  looked  curiously 
at  Ellis'  white  face,  and  then  at  Marie's  expressionless 
calm. 

"Has  my  guardian  come?"  Marie  asked. 

"No.  Townley  told  me  some  time  ago  that  Mac- 
Allister  had  telephoned  to  him  to  come  into  town. 
Townley  said  he  would  bring  the  limousine  back  for 
us  after  supper." 

Marie  paused  abruptly.  "Did  he  say  my  guardian 
was  not  coming?" 

"No — only  what  I  have  told  you." 

Marie  walked  on  in  silence. 

"Did  you  expect  MacAllister  to  come  before  this?" 
Mendall  asked. 

"Yes." 

Mendall  studied  her.  He  had  learned  to  classify  her 
264 


LA   DE   LA   GUARDA  265 

moods ;  she  was  unhappy.  "You  don't  feel  like  danc- 
ing, do  you?" 

"How  often  does  the  girl  who  gambols  upon  the 
stage  feel  like  doing  it?"  she  returned  bitterly.  "It  is 
a  bit  of  stage  effect  Madame  Kotany  proposes." 

"You  can  decline  to  do  it !"  Mendall  said  quickly. 

As  usual  she  read  his  thoughts  correctly.  "You 
would  like  me  and  my  dancing  to  be  confined  to  your 
studio  alone,  I  suppose,"  she  returned  cuttingly. 

Mendall  realized  that  she  was  at  her  worst,  and  he 
glanced  again  at  Ellis,  who  seemed  to  be  entirely  oc- 
cupied by  his  thoughts,  which,  to  judge  from  his  ex- 
pression, were  not  happy  ones.  The  boy  had  not  said 
a  word  since  Mendall  had  appeared. 

Marie  turned  to  Ellis  when  they  reached  the  ver- 
anda, and  her  voice  lost  its  savagery.  "I  thank  you 
for  the  walk  we  have  had  together,"  she  said,  with  the 
sweetness  she  sometimes  showed.  "It  was  an  honor. 
Mademoiselle  Clare  is  my  good  friend,  and  as  I  know 
you  are  her  best  friend,  you  must  always  be  mine 
also." 

Ellis'  muttered  answer  was  indistinct.  He  wrung 
Marie's  hand  before  he  escaped  from  the  lights  of  the 
veranda.  Mendall  guessed  accurately  the  meaning  of 
Marie's  speech.  He  was  glad  Ellis  Kraup  had  been 
given  a  decided  answer;  he  hated  the  popularity  that 
was  making  Marie  much  sought  after.  As  Marie  had 
said,  he  wanted  to  keep  her  to  himself. 

Marie  turned  now  to  him.  She  shook  her  shoulders 
as  if  to  rid  herself  of  an  oppression.     "And  now, 


266  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

Seiior,  let  us  go  in  and  dance  to  the  very  end  this 
gliding  thing  that  is  calling  to  us.  I  want  motion — I 
have  stood  too  long  in  the  moonlight." 

Mendall  laughed  a  little  excitedly  as  he  swept  her 
in  among  the  dancers.  He  had  passed  his  wife  and 
Harmon  Kent  without  seeing  them,  and  had  brushed 
by  Mrs.  Bagsby,  who  stood  in  the  doorway,  without  a 
glance  for  her.  But  Marie  had  seen  them  both.  She 
met  Mrs.  Mendall's  pinched  look  steadily;  to  Mrs. 
Bagsby  she  gave  a  slight  smile.  Whenever  they 
passed  her  in  the  dance,  Marie  took  occasion  to  execute 
some  one  of  the  intricately  graceful  movements  with 
which  she  seemed  to  be  familiar.  She  and  Mendall 
improvised  as  if  with  one  brain.  They  were  by  far 
the  most  original  couple  on  the  floor.  Marie  danced 
with  the  ease  of  a  professional,  and  carried  Mendall 
with  her. 

Mrs.  Kotany  nodded  and  smiled  at  them  as  they 
danced,  then  went  out  to  the  veranda.  She  wore  the 
look  of  the  pleasantly  preoccupied  hostess.  "Oh,  here 
you  are,  Harmon!"  she  said.  "I've  been  looking  for 
you.  .  .  .  Just  as  soon  as  this  dance  is  over,  before 
they  go  out  to  the  tables,  will  you  get  the  center  of  the 
floor  and  announce  in  your  beautiful  baritone — that 
Miss  Ogilvie  and  Mr.  Mendall  have  consented  to  dance 
the  fandango  for  us  before  we  go  out  to  supper?  .  .  . 
The  orchestra's  been  coached,  it'll  tune  up  right  away, 
and  then  we'll  see  something  worth  while!"  She 
laughed  when  she  saw  Harmon  Kent's  look  of  sur- 
prise:   "Miss  Ogilvie  promised  me  in  the  beginning 


LA   DE   LA   GUARDA  267 

she'd  do  it,  if  I  got  her  a  partner,  and  Mr.  Mendall's 
been  lovely  about  it,  so  it's  all  right.  .  .  .  Now,  you 
do  your  part — will  you,  Harmon  ?" 

"I'll  be  delighted.  .  .  .  Just  like  you  to  invent  a 
surprise  like  this." 

She  received  smilingly  the  credit  which  really  be- 
longed to  Blanche  Bagsby.  "That's  splendid  of  you. 
Don't  let  anybody  get  out-of-doors  before  you  make 
your  announcement.  I'm  going  to  tell  the  people  out 
here,"  and,  with  a  whole-hearted  smile  for  Mrs.  Men- 
dall,  she  hurried  off. 

"That's  just  like  Sarah  Kotany !"  Kent  said  to  Mrs. 
Mendall.  "She  is  the  best  entertainer  in  Laclasse,  and 
manages  to  be  an  all-around  good  sort  at  the  same 
time.  She  deserves  her  popularity.  .  .  .  But  why 
didn't  you  tell  me  what  was  doing?" 

Mrs.  Mendall  did  not  say  that  she  had  been  as  ig- 
norant as  he.  She  was  burning  with  something  that 
hurt  more  than  anger,  yet  she  smiled.  "You  were  just 
told  that  it  was  a  secret." 

The  dance  was  over,  and  squaring  his  shoulders, 
Kent  went  to  make  the  announcement.  He  liked  to 
be  spectacular — as  Mrs.  Kotany  well  knew. 

There  was  silence,  when  he  called  for  it,  and  after 
his  speech  a  hum  of  voices  and  a  scramble  for  standing 
space  against  the  walls.  Those  who  were  outside  filled 
the  windows.  Marie  and  Mendall  were  left  together 
in  the  center  of  the  room. 

It  was  Marie  who  gave  the  signal  to  the  musicians, 
an  upflung  arm  and  a  sharp  rattle  of  her  castanets. 


268  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

When  they  caught  up  the  lively  triple  time  and  swung 
into  full  measure,  she  and  Mendall  whirled  apart, 
bowed,  gravitated  to  each  other  again,  coquetted  over 
their  proximity,  parted  and  again  sought  each  other. 
Marie  escaped  and  he  followed;  she  danced  for  him, 
drew  him,  then  eluded  him,  the  click  of  their  casta- 
nets now  sounding  a  call,  now  a  defeat,  now  triumph. 

Despite  its  Spanish  liveliness,  the  fandango  is  fun- 
damentally oriental;  it  was  the  Moors  who  brought  it 
into  Spain.  Under  Marie's  handling  it  became  su- 
premely the  dance  of  courtship.  Whether  spun  from 
her  own  brain,  or  an  adaptation  of  some  subtle  stage 
version  with  which  she  was  familiar,  its  oriental  quality 
gained  significance.  Mendall  danced  with  Spanish- 
American  grace  and  abandon,  as  he  danced  the  fan- 
dango in  the  Isthmus,  but,  as  they  continued,  he  un- 
consciously yielded  to  Marie's  sway.  He  grew  intent, 
utterly  absorbed  by  his  partner,  the  fire  of  demand 
growing  in  his  eyes,  the  warmth  of  pursuit  in  his 
cheeks.  It  was  no  longer  play  with  him ;  he  was  com- 
pletely, emotionally  absorbed. 

Mendall  lost  himself  in  the  dance;  Marie  did  not. 
She  danced  with  an  oriental  subtlety  tinctured  with 
true  savagery.  Her  face,  with  its  drooping  eyelids  and 
shut  lips,  had  all  the  immobility  of  the  Indian.  It  was 
her  body  that  spoke ;  with  it  she  ran  the  whole  gamut 
of  emotions.  The  frankly  American  girls  who 
watched  her  quivered,  they  did  not  know  why,  and 
the    conventionally    experienced    woman,    like    Mrs. 


LA   DE   LA   GUARDA  269 

Bagsby — who,  if  she  could,  would  reduce  man-capture 
to  a  science — because  of  the  sheer  primitive  beauty  of 
Marie's  rendition,  felt  a  stir  of  antagonism  that 
amounted  to  hatred.  And  there  was  not  a  man  in 
the  room  whose  color  did  not  rise;  there  were  many 
who  were  conscious  of  shortened  breath. 

And  yet  to  no  one,  man  or  woman,  not  even  to  Mrs. 
Mendall,  who  grew  white  under  the  ordeal,  did  Marie's 
dancing  convey  an  offense ;  to  many,  stirred  emotions ; 
to  some,  envy;  to  one  or  two,  a  passion  of  jealousy; 
but  to  no  one  the  tincturing  of  disgust  that  is  always 
the  result  of  mere  suggestiveness.  Marie  was  ex- 
pressing woman's  drawing  power  too  subtly  and  too 
beautifully.  She  was  too  truly  the  artist.  Even  from 
the  reluctant  she  extracted  admiration. 

And  in  spite  of  her  apparent  absorption  Marie 
showed  that  she  had  the  subtle  actress'  instinct  for 
effect.  She  gaged  her  audience  accurately;  she  did 
not  allow  surprise  to  degenerate  into  criticism.  With 
a  whisper  to  Mendall  that  brought  them  together  with 
left  hands  clasped  and  right  arms  lifted  for  a  final 
rattle  of  their  castanets,  she  brought  the  dance  to  an 
end. 

They  stood  then,  motionless,  hands  gripped,  until 
the  music  stopped;  and  then,  before  the  room  was 
upon  them,  hand  in  hand,  led  by  Marie,  they  made  a 
dash  for  the  open. 

They  had  a  few  moments  together  on  the  lawn  be- 
fore the  laughter  and  chatter  of  the  ballroom  poured 


270  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

out  upon  the  veranda  in  search  of  them.  Mendall  was 
still  so  held  by  emotion  that  he  was  panting  and  speech- 
less ;  he  still  gripped  Marie's  hand. 

But  Marie  was  not  looking  at  him.  She  stood  with 
chest  heaving  and  restless  eyes  searching  the  veranda. 
She  looked  at  and  through  the  groups  that  were  ap- 
proaching. When  a  club  attendant  ran  down  the  steps 
ahead  of  the  oncoming  crowd,  and  hurried  up  to  them, 
her  face  lighted. 

"Ah,  he  comes  to  tell  me !"  she  said  softly. 

She  pulled  her  hand  from  Mendall' s  and  went  to 
meet  the  boy.  Mendall  followed  her  mechanically. 
"Mr.  MacAllister  has  come?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"I  don't  know  'urn,"  the  boy  said.  "A  messenger 
boy  brought  this  while  you  was  dancing,"  and  he  gave 
her  a  note. 

Turning  her  back  on  the  crowd,  Marie  tore  open  the 
envelope.  Mendall  felt  rather  than  saw  her  stiffen, 
and,  before  her  hand  crushed  the  paper,  his  down- 
ward glance  saw  the  Spanish  words  which  were  so 
boldly  printed  that  they  were  easily  legible : 

LA  DE  LA  GUARDA 

Marie  stood  quite  still,  looking  down  at  the  crushed 
paper  in  her  hand,  and  Mendall  saw  the  gray  tint  creep 
over  her  face  and  throat,  turning  her  ashen.  He  could 
not  guess  the  meaning  of  the  note,  but  Marie's  terror 
sobered  him  completely. 

"What  is  it?    .    .    .    Anything  wrong  with  Mac- 


LA   DE   LA    GUARD  A  271 

Allister?"  he  asked  hurriedly,  for  the  foremost  group 
from  the  veranda  had  almost  reached  them. 

Marie  turned  stiffly.  Her  lifeless  look  passed  over 
him  and  went  to  meet  the  laughing  congratulations 
that  were  fairly  upon  them.  Even  her  lips  were  color- 
less, the  curious  leaden  hue  one  sees  sometimes  in  the 
face  of  a  terrified  mulatto. 

"I  think — he  will  not  come,"  she  said,  in  the  same 
hushed  way  in  which  one  says :  "He  is  dead." 


XL 

THEY  NONE  OF  THEM  SPOKE 

IT  was  a  silent  party  of  three  MacAllister's  limou- 
sine conveyed  to  his  house  in  Dunkirk  a  little  after 
two  in  the  morning.  It  had  been  arranged  several 
days  before  that  Marie  and  the  Mendalls  were  to  spend 
what  remained  of  the  night,  after  the  dance,  at  Mac- 
Allister's  house. 

They  had  left  Mrs.  Kotany's  party  still  dancing. 
Marie  had  pleaded  weariness,  and  the  Mendalls'  ex- 
cuse for  leaving  was  the  early  start  they  must  make  for 
the  country. 

Mendall  was  only  vaguely  conscious  of  the  two 
hours  that  had  passed  since  the  rush  of  congratula- 
tions and  comments  had  carried  Marie  away  from 
him.  At  supper  they  had  sat  at  different  tables.  He 
had  danced  afterward,  mostly  with  his  wife,  for  in  a 
secondary  way  it  had  struck  him  that  she  looked  white 
and  miserable.  He  had  blanched  Mrs.  Bagsby's  cheeks 
by  a  threat  when,  evidently  unable  to  resist  the  femi- 
nine impulse,  she  had  flung  an  insinuation  at  him  re- 
garding Marie.  "Repeat  that  to  me  or  any  one  else 
and  you'll  regret  it  as  long  as  you  live !"  he  had  flung 
back  at  her,  and  she  had  cowered.  When  the  limou- 
sine came  for  them,  driven  not  by  Townley,  but  by  a 

272 


THEY    NONE    OF    THEM    SPOKE     273 

boy  from  some  down-town  garage,  he  had  questioned 
him  and  learned  that  the  boy  knew  nothing  of  Mac- 
Allister's  whereabouts,  that  a  telephone  message  to  the 
garage  had  put  him  in  charge  of  the  limousine.  All 
these  occurrences  had  been  simply  a  part  of  the  vague- 
ness of  the  two  last  hours. 

What  stood  out  clearly  was  Marie's  face,  gray,  still, 
as  she  sat  at  supper ;  white  and  immobile  as  she  danced 
first  with  one  and  then  another;  and  her  lifeless  air 
when  she  refused  to  dance  with  him;  "Non,  we  have 
danced  enough  together,"  she  had  said.  "I  wish  to 
go.  When  the  limousine  comes,  let  us  go  quickly." 
His  thoughts  had  circled  intently  and  continuously 
about  Marie.  It  was  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  last 
weeks  intensified,  developed  by  the  emotional  strain 
of  the  evening  into  a  veritable  passion. 

And  as  he  sat  now  opposite  Marie  and  his  wife  he 
did  not  take  his  eyes  from  Marie.  The  moon  still 
made  things  clear;  Marie  was  dead  white.  She  had 
paused  when  she  saw  that  it  was  not  Townley  who 
held  the  door  of  the  limousine  for  them,  but  she  had 
asked  the  boy  no  questions.  She  did  not  speak  once 
during  the  drive  city-ward.  Nor  did  Mrs.  Mendall. 
They  none  of  them  spoke.  Mrs.  Mendall  sat  gathered 
into  her  corner,  and  Marie  was  motionless,  with  eye- 
lids dropped  so  low  that  her  eyes  were  a  mere  gleam. 
Mendall  knew  she  was  suffering,  and  that,  for  some 
reason  he  could  not  fathom,  both  her  terror  and  her 
hurt  were  connected  with  MacAUister.  He  set  his 
teeth  on  the  certainty. 


274  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

It  was  the  Chinaman  who  opened  the  door  to  them ; 
a  queer,  slit-eyed,  yellow  creature  he  was  in  his  long 
bluish  coat  and  pointed  shoes. 

Marie's  eyes  swept  the  hall  and  the  vista  of  dimly 
lighted  library,  and  then  fastened  on  the  Chinaman. 
"Is — Monsieur  MacAllister  here?"  she  asked  in  a  voice 
that  was  thicker  than  usual,  as  if  she  was  breathless. 

"No,  he  go  way — out  of  town." 

"When?"  Marie  asked  quickly. 

"To-night.  He  eat  dinner  and  go  out.  He  not 
come  back.    He  telephone  he  go  way." 

"What  time  did  he  telephone?"  Marie  asked  in  the 
same  eager  way. 

"  'Bout  middel  of  the  night." 

Marie  stood  looking  at  him  blankly,  as  if  some  over- 
whelming fear  of  hers  had  been  confirmed.  Then  her 
lips  began  to  quiver:  "But — he  told  you  to  tell  me 
'He  go  away'?  He  left — a  message  for  me?"  It  was 
begging  for  the  answer  she  knew  she  would  not  get. 

The  Chinaman's  eyes  widened.  Even  Mrs.  Men- 
dall,  deep  as  she  was  in  her  own  thoughts,  was  in- 
fected by  a  sense  of  disaster. 

The  Chinaman  shook  his  head.  "No.  He  say  only 
he  go  way  quick,  and  I  keep  house." 

Marie  turned  to  the  stairs;  then,  as  if  asking  a  ques- 
tion to  which  she  already  knew  the  answer,  she  said, 
almost  with  indifference:  "Townley  has  not  come 
back,  either?" 

"He  not  been  here  since  he  take  you  out  to  the 
club." 


THEY    NONE    OF    THEM    SPOKE     275 

Marie  said  no  more.  She  climbed  the  stairs  slowly, 
as  if  tired;  as  if  she  had  completely  forgotten  that  any 
one  was  with  her.  The  Chinaman  looked  after  her 
and  then  at  the  Mendalls,  his  narrow  eyes  grown  bril- 
liant. He  bowed  and  hesitated,  his  oriental  mind  con- 
fused for  a  moment  as  to  just  what  was  his  duty.  But 
evidently  he  decided  that  the  host's  part  devolved  on 
him,  for  he  bowed  again  : 

"You  come  up-stairs,"  he  said.  "I  show  you  loom," 
and  he  slid  like  a  shadow  past  Marie's  slow  ascent. 

He  hovered  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  until  they  came 
up,  and  pointed  out  their  rooms  with  a  succession  of 
little  bows. 

Marie  seemed  to  have  roused  to  a  realization  of  their 
presence,  for  she  spoke  now.  "It  is  late — I  hope  you 
sleep  well,"  she  said  evenly.    "I  am  very  tired." 

"Will  you  be  going  out  with  us  in  the  morning?" 
Mrs.  Mendall  asked.  It  was  of  the  future  she  was 
thinking.  She  looked  very  small  and  white  and  yet 
determined  as  she  stood  before  Marie. 

Marie  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  "I  think,  if 
you  go  early,  I  shall  come  later,"  she  said  finally. 

"If  you  wait  here  you  may  have  some  word  from 
MacAllister,"  Mendall  said,  with  a  touch  of  dryness. 

Marie  turned  her  eyes  on  him,  a  vague  look.  "He 
has  gone  for  a  few  days  on  business.  He  often  goes 
so — in  haste,"  she  answered,  in  the  same  even  way. 
"I  say  good  night  now,"  and  she  shut  herself  in  her 
room. 


XLI 

MRS.  MENDALL  TELLS  A  SECRET 

"TT7HAT  is  it,  Carl — has  anything  happened  to 

VV  Mr.  MacAllister?"  Mrs.  Mendall  asked,  as 
soon  as  their  door  had  closed  on  them. 

"I  don't  know,"  Mendall  replied. 

"Marie  seems  so  terribly  anxious." 

"I  don't  know  what  the  trouble  is.  Marie  Ogilvie 
is  not  altogether  easy  to  understand." 

"But  she  is  fascinating — I  realized  that  to-night." 

"Laclasse  seems  to  think  so.  She  certainly  dances 
marvelously.  I  confess  she  stirred  me  by  her  dancing. 
I  haven't  cooled  off  yet." 

Mendall  was  on  his  guard.  He  spoke  in  the  careless 
tone  he  always  adopted  when  forced  to  discuss  Marie 
with  his  wife.  He  would  think  of  nothing  else  than 
the  riddle  that  called  itself  Marie  Ogilvie  until  he  saw 
her  again,  that  was  habitual,  but  he  did  not  want  to 
talk  about  her.  He  was  doubtful  whether  he  could 
keep  himself  in  hand.  He  knew  from  Margaret's 
manner  during  all  the  latter  part  of  the  evening,  and 
the  undercurrent  of  alarm  in  her  last  speech  that  his 
dance  with  Marie  had  aroused  her  anxiety  and  jeal- 
ousy.   She  had  put  to  flight  every  woman  with  whom 

276 


MRS.    MENDALL    TELLS    A    SECRET    277 

he  had  ever  played.  He  couldn't  lose  Marie.  He  was 
desperately  anxious  that  she  should  not  suspect. 

The  spacious  room  the  Chinaman  had  assigned  to 
them  was  whitened  by  the  moonlight ;  the  lights  at  the 
dressing-table  were  too  heavily  shaded  to  overcome  it, 
and  Mendall  tried  to  avoid  further  talk  by  going  to 
the  window.    "What  a  night !"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Mendall  said  no  more.  There  were  things  she 
meant  to  say,  but  they  must  wait  a  little.  Their  hand- 
bags with  their  night  clothes  and  a  change  for  the 
morning  stood  on  the  rack,  and  she  went  to  them  and 
began  to  unpack  rapidly.  She  did  not  disturb  Mendall 
by  even  a  remark  until  she  had  taken  off  her  gauze 
dress  and  wrapped  herself  in  her  kimono.  Then  she 
came  to  his  side. 

"I  have  put  your  things  out,  dear,"  she  said. 

"Have  you — "  Mendall  returned  absently.  "I  don't 
seem  to  want  to  sleep." 

He  was  wondering  what  Marie  was  doing:  lying 
prone  on  her  bed  without  even  having  removed  her 
huge  comb,  probably;  possibly  walking  the  floor,  as 
she  so  often  did  when  she  was  waiting  for  MacAllister. 
Then  he  roused  a  little : 

"I  didn't  know  this  place  had  such  a  view." 

"It  will  be  beautiful  when  the  trees  have  grown," 
Mrs.  Mendall  answered. 

"The  moon  keeps  at  it,  doesn't  it?" 

Its  pale  light  reigned  supreme  still,  though  preparing 
to  melt  into  the  pinky  gray  of  dawn.  The  house  stood 
on  a  knoll,  and  their  room  was  in  the  front,  with  a 


278  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

view  of  graveled  driveway,  slopes  of  clean-cut  lawn, 
darkened  here  and  there  with  shrubbery  and  young 
trees.  Beyond  were  stretches  of  distance,  marked  by 
an  occasional  new  house.  There  were  only  a  few  tall 
trees.  Dunkirk  had  originally  been  a  village,  as  old 
almost  as  the  town  of  Laclasse,  but  the  residence 
streets  of  the  city  had  reached  out  and  enveloped  it. 
Now  it  was  a  part  of  Laclasse,  and  all  this  that  lay 
before  them  was  MacAllister's  enterprise,  an  addition 
to  Dunkirk. 

"It  will  be  a  beautiful  place,"  Mrs.  Mendall  re- 
peated, "and  Mr.  MacAllister  is  preparing  to  leave  it 
to  Marie." 

Mendall  gathered  himself  together  for  the  scene 
which  seemed  unavoidable.  He  put  his  arm  about  his 
wife's  shoulders  and  drew  her  to  him;  he  had  often 
escaped  disagreeables  by  a  show  of  affection — which, 
to  do  him  justice,  was  rarely  a  pretense.  And  it  was 
not  to-night.  His  feeling  for  his  wife,  and  his  fever 
over  Marie,  were  two  entirely  different  things.  If 
forced  to  explain  he  would  have  said  that  a  man  fre- 
quently loves  two  women  at  the  same  time. 

"Well,  Marie  is  fortunate,"  he  said  lightly. 

"She  is  both  fortunate  and  very  unfortunate,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  continued  steadily.  "I  have  never  told  you 
all  I  know  about  Marie,  Carl." 

He  looked  down  on  her  grave  determination. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  in  a  changed  voice. 

"You  know  I  told  you  the  first  night  she  came  to  us 


MRS.    MENDALL   TELLS    A    SECRET    279 

that  I  was  certain  she  was  Alexander  MacAUister' s 
daughter?" 

"Yes.  You've  always  insisted  that  she  was,  but  I've 
thought  differently." 

"Because  I  didn't  tell  you  everything.  ...  I  told 
you  I  knew  her  mother — that  we  were  at  the  same 
school.  We  were  great  friends,  Carl.  I  was  terribly 
homesick,  and  she  was  lovely  to  me.  I  was  only  four- 
teen and  a  little  girl,  and  she  was  eighteen.  She 
mothered  me;  I  adored  her.  She  was  so  gay  and  so 
beautiful — much  prettier  than  Marie — not  so  strange 
looking.  Though  Marie's  features  are  not  like  Mac- 
Allister's, there  is  a  resemblance  in  her  to  him.  Marie 
shows  that  she  is  part  Scotch,  both  in  her  face  and  in 
her  manner.  Sometimes  she  is  like  MacAUister,  cool 
and  calculating.  Eugenie  was  a  gay,  affectionate,  ir- 
responsible creature,  I  know  that  now,  but  I  was  not 
so  good  a  judge  of  character  at  that  time.  Marie  has 
her  mother  in  her  too ;  certain  characteristics. 

"I  told  you  Eugenie  married  MacAUister.  Her 
father  was  a  Frenchman.  He  had  been  a  cotton 
planter.  He  married  a  New  Orleans  girl,  and  when 
Eugenie  was  a  child  he  took  his  family  to  Paris.  He 
died  there,  and  by  some  chance  Eugenie  was  brought 
back  to  New  Orleans,  and  either  some  relative  or 
friends  sent  her  to  New  York  to  school.  But  before 
she  came  she  had  met  MacAUister.  He  was  wildly 
in  love  with  her,  and  she  with  him.  She  told  me  her 
New  Orleans  connection  had  sent  her  north  to  get  her 
away  from  him.    She  used  to  cry  over  his  letters  and 


280  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

tell  me  she  was  not  going  to  marry  him.  But  he  fol- 
lowed her.  They  were  married  secretly  in  New  York, 
and  he  took  her  to  Mexico. 

"I  was  tremendously  impressed  by  it  all.  For  some 
reason  she  chose  to  write  to  me,  all  about  her  life  in 
Mexico,  and  how  happy  she  was.  But  in  a  little  over 
a  year  the  break  came.  There  was  a  fearful  estrange- 
ment. She  wrote  me  MacAllister  had  been  brutal  to 
her.  I  hated  him  for  her  sake.  Either  she  went  of 
her  own  accord  back  to  her  connections  in  Paris,  or  he 
sent  her  there,  and  her  baby  with  her.  For  a  long 
time  I  didn't  hear  from  her;  then  she  sent  occasional 
letters,  and  I  used  to  write  long  letters  in  return.  I 
really  loved  her.  She  didn't  tell  me  much  about  her- 
self, just  that  she  was  with  friends,  but  she  always 
mentioned  her  little  girl.  .  .  .  Then  came  the  final 
letter.  She  said  she  was  very  ill.  I  think  she  was 
dying,  for  I  never  heard  from  her  again.  I  think  be- 
fore she  died  she  wanted  to  tell  me  the  truth;  she 
wanted  to  confess  herself.  ...  It  was  a  shock  to 
me.  .  .  .  She  told  me,  Carl,  that  her  mother  had 
been  an  octoroon.  She  had  married  MacAllister  and 
not  told  him.  When  he  found  it  out  he  would  not  live 
with  her.  She  asked  me  to  keep  her  secret — that  in 
Paris  there  was  not  the  bitter  prejudice  there  is  here; 
that  her  French  friends  would  care  for  her  child." 

Mendall  said  nothing  for  a  time.  He  looked  down 
on  his  wife  with  brows  lifted  and  lips  slightly  apart, 
more  a  look  of  complete  amazement  than  consterna- 
tion. 


MRS.    MENDALL   TELLS    A    SECRET    281 

"And  Marie — "  he  stopped. 

"She  has  the  same  blood  in  her  as  Lucy,"  Mrs. 
Mendall  said  clearly.  "It  shows  in  her  far  more  than 
it  did  in  her  mother.  .  .  .  Lucy  feels  it,  though  she 
does  not  know  it,  and  resents  it,  and  though  I  have 
tried  my  best,  Marie  is  utterly  repellent  to  me.  She 
shows  that  she  is  a  savage.  Carl,  Eugenie  showed  it 
too,  in  a  more  light-hearted  and  careless  way — there 
wasn't  the  Scotch  blood  in  her  to  make  her  glum  like 
Marie,  but  she  had  the  same  passion  for  color;  for 
reds  and  yellows.  And  she  used  to  sit  around  in  the 
sun  just  as  this  girl  does.  ...  I  have  never  liked 
Mr.  MacAllister,  I  think  he  can  be  ruthless.  And  one 
can't  like  a  man  who  is  so  calculating  that  he  is  afraid 
to  own  his  own  child;  now  that  the  war  has  driven 
Marie  to  him  he  hasn't  the  courage  actually  to  call 
her  his  own ;  he  wants  to  get  around  a  lot  of  difficulties 
by  simply  adopting  her.  I  don't  like  him,  nevertheless 
I  pity  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I  would  not 
be  responsible  for  that  girl's  future  for  twenty  times 
Alexander  MacAllister's  money."  She  spoke  with 
passionate  earnestness,  her  unconquerable  aversion  to 
Marie  apparent  in  every  word. 

"It  accounts  for — a  good  deal.  I  have  always  felt 
there  was  primitive  blood  in  her — and  that  she  knows 
it — "  Mendall  said  slowly,  "still — "  he  stopped  again. 

Mrs.  Mendall  felt  that  her  husband  was  trying  to 
consider  what  she  had  told  him  in  an  impersonal  way, 
and  she  was  a  little  ashamed  of  her  own  warmth.  "I 
have  really  tried  to  like  Marie,  Carl.     I  have  tried 


282  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

hard,  for  her  mother's  sake,  but  from  the  very  begin- 
ning my  secret  knowledge  got  in  the  way.  I  am 
afraid  my  prejudices  are  very  deeply  rooted.  I  have 
often  wondered  whether  it  would  have  been  possible 
for  me  to  have  loved  Eugenie,  if  I  had  known.  Even 
as  a  little  girl  I  don't  believe  I  could  have  done  it. 
Even  if  Marie  were  gay  and  lovable  like  her  mother,  I 
think  my  feeling  of  repulsion  would  have  been  the 
same.  I  should  have  been  sorry  for  her — I  have  been 
sorry  for  Marie,  terribly  sorry  at  times — but  I  don't 
believe  that  in  any  case  I  could  have  loved  her.  And 
perhaps  Marie  has  instinctively  felt  my  repulsion,  and 
that  is  the  reason  she  has  kept  herself  a  sealed  book 
to  me.  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  have  her  inheritance, 
and  I  am  genuinely  sorry  for  her  and  her  father.  They 
are  neither  of  them  to  blame  for  her  being." 

Mendall  was  not  thinking  of  what  she  was  saying. 
He  was  trying  to  adapt  his  many  surmises  and  his  dis- 
coveries to  this  revelation.  ...  It  explained  Marie. 
And  it  explained  MacAllister. 

But  Carl  Mendall  was  not  shocked.  He  was  simply 
very  much  surprised  and  interested.  And  he  knew 
instantly  why  Margaret  had  parted  with  her  secret. 
She  had  been  driven  by  alarm  to  take  what  would 
appear  to  her  an  effective  measure.  She  counted  upon 
his  having  the  same  feeling  of  repulsion  that  she  had. 
She  had  no  suspicion  of  his  love  for  the  primitive ;  he 
had  never  horrified  her  by  unnecessary  revelations. 

Mendall  had  no  feeling  of  repulsion,  because  he  had 


MRS.    MENDALL    TELLS    A    SECRET    283 

no  prejudices.  He  had  told  Marie  the  truth  when  he 
had  said  that  all  nationalities  were  much  the  same  to 
him.  He  had  been  fascinated  by  the  mixed  people  of 
the  Isthmus.  In  fact  he  had  a  much  higher  regard  for 
the  Tehuana  who  had  ruled  over  his  Isthmus  cook- 
house than  for  Mrs.  Bagsby's  sort.  The  Tehuana  was 
a  woman;  Mrs.  Bagsby  a  warped  product  of  civiliza- 
tion. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  shocked.  On  the  contrary, 
as  soon  as  he  recovered  from  surprise,  he  had  a  feeling 
of  relief.  This  then  was  the  explanation  of  Marie's 
devotion  to  MacAllister,  and  his  love  for  her;  the 
thing  that  had  tormented  him.  ...  He  drew  a  long 
breath:  this  set  Marie  definitely  apart;  out  of  the 
reach  of  suitors.  No  wonder  she  looked  unhappy  as 
she  had  walked  between  Ellis  Kraup  and  himself.  No 
wonder  she  had  been  pallid  and  then  enraged  when  he 
had  shown  that  he  suspected  her  secret.  He  had  been 
right  from  the  beginning;  she  had  dark  blood  in  her. 
He  was  glad  the  mystery  was  cleared.  It  brought  her 
closer  to  him.  He  was  probably  the  only  man  she 
would  ever  know  to  whom  it  would  make  no  differ- 
ence. 

Mendall  had  never  actually  lied  to  his  wife  about 
anything  or  anybody,  perhaps  because  she  had  never 
made  it  necessary  for  him  to  lie.  But  he  determined, 
swiftly,  that  he  would  lie  if  she  drove  him  to  it;  he 
would  do  anything  rather  than  return  to  the  madden- 
ing blank  which  Marie's  coming  had  filled. 


284  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

He  asked  a  question  to  which  he  knew  the  answer, 
simply  to  be  saying  something :  "Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  all  this  before,  Margaret?" 

"I  was  so  very  certain  that  you  disliked  her,  Carl, 
and  I  didn't  want  to  prejudice  you  still  more.  I 
couldn't  see  how  any  one  could  like  her.  But  to-night 
I  realized  that  she  would  be  dangerous  to  almost  any 
man.  I  thought  you  ought  to  know.  Any  man  who 
is  drawn  by  her  is  courting  tragedy." 

"That's  true  enough.  I've  always  thought  her  dan- 
gerous." 

His  cool  discussion  of  Marie  brought  Mrs.  Mendall 
some  relief.  It  did  not  completely  satisfy  her,  she  had 
been  too  terrified.  Most  wives  would  have  asked  the 
direct  questions  that  most  husbands,  for  peace's  sake, 
must  answer  with  falsehoods.  But  not  Margaret  Men- 
dall. She  would  repeat  her  warning  and  wait.  "I 
think  Mr.  MacAllister  loves  her,  Carl.  I  think  it  was 
mostly  pity  at  first,  but  these  last  weeks  she  has  got 
close  to  his  heart.  .  .  .  He  is  the  kind  that  would 
annihilate  any  man  who  trifled  with  her." 

Mendall  held  steadily  to  his  coolness.  "He  would, 
I  think.  But  Marie  hasn't  struck  me  as  the  to-be- 
trifled- with  sort.  She's  struck  me  as  pretty  thoroughly 
mistress  of  herself."  He  pointed  to  the  mixture  of 
white  light  and  pink  dawn :  "We've  talked  till  morn- 
ing, Margaret — I've  cooled  off — I'm  tired." 

"Are  you,  dear?"  She  reached  up  and  drew  his 
head  down  to  her,  and  her  voice  suddenly  grew  un- 
steady.   "It  makes  me  ill  all  over  when  I  am  anxious 


MRS.    MENDALL   TELLS   A    SECRET    285 

about  you.  I  believe  no  mother  ever  loved  her  boy 
more  than  I  love  you.  ...  I  have  often  wondered 
how  it  would  be  if  I — if  we  had  a  child?  .  .  . 
Would  you  love  it — Carl?" 

She  felt  his  cheek  grow  scarlet.  "I  suppose  I 
should,"  he  said  indistinctly.  "I  don't  know.  .  .  . 
I  suppose  I'm  wanting  in  some  ways.  Perhaps  it's 
just  that  I'm  a  brute.  Perhaps  I've  some  of  Marie's 
dark  blood  in  me.  .  .  .  Whatever  I  am,  I  can't 
help  it.  I  know  I  wasn't  meant  for  anything  as  good 
as  you  are." 

"Hush!"  she  said. 

He  lifted  his  head  with  a  sudden  passionate  gesture. 
"One  thing  I  do  know:  if  I  can't  paint,  I'll  go  under! 
I'm  capable  of  doing  anything  when  the  fear  of  be- 
coming a  mere  school  drudge  takes  hold  on  me!  If 
I'm  to  be  deprived  of  what  little  inspiration  comes  my 
way,  I'll  end  by  doing  something  desperate !" 


XLII 

STORM  CLOUDS 

MRS.  KOTANY'S  party  undoubtedly  gave  pleas- 
ure to  many,  but  to  the  Mendall  household  it 
had  brought  acute  suspense.  The  little  house  beneath 
Twin  Oaks  Hill  was  permeated  with  anxiety  and  un- 
rest. 

Marie  had  remained  in  town  for  most  of  the  day 
following  the  dance,  but  evidently  her  stay  had  af- 
forded her  no  relief,  for  she  came  back  looking  hag- 
gard and  worn.  "Monsieur  MacAllister  has  not  yet 
returned,"  she  told  Mrs.  Mendall,  and  then  withdrew 
into  an  unapproachable  silence. 

put  her  anxiety  and  restlessness  communicated  it- 
self to  every  one  in  the  house.  Even  the  mulatto 
woman  was  attacked  by  unrest,  for  she  left  without 
giving  warning.  Possibly  it  was  Marie's  tiger-like 
pacing  of  the  room  opposite  her  own  that  made  her 
uneasy.  Mrs.  Mendall  was  not  surprised  when  Lucy 
failed  to  return  from  Laclasse  on  the  Sunday  morning 
following  Mrs.  Kotany's  party.  For  two  months  the 
woman  had  smoldered  under  the  necessity  of  submis- 
sion to  one  of  her  own  kind;  this  result  was  natural. 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  glad  of  the  excuse  to  remain 
286 


STORM    CLOUDS  287 

closely  at  home  for  a  time.  Just  what  would  come 
of  the  agony  of  suspense  that  appeared  to  be  riding 
Marie,  she  could  not  tell,  but  MacAllister's  return 
would  certainly  bring  a  change  of  some  sort.  She 
was  thinking  in  her  silent  yet  intense  way  of  the  fu- 
ture. The  passionate  exclamation  which  had  closed 
her  talk  with  her  husband  on  the  night  of  the  dance 
worried  her.  The  old  unrest  seemed  to  have  taken 
possession  of  him  again,  for  he  had  begun  to  roam 
the  country.  He  spent  only  short  intervals  in  his 
studio,  certain  sign  that  he  was  in  his  blackest  mood. 
He  was  affectionate  to  her,  but  silent,  and  she  felt 
that  it  was  best  not  to  question.  She  felt  certain  that 
Marie's  distress  was  responsible  for  his  gloom.  He 
had  taken  very  calmly  what  she  had  told  him  of  Ma- 
rie's inheritance;  he  had  not  referred  to  it  since,  but 
it  must  have  been  a  shock;  particularly  if  he  had  come 
to  look  upon  Marie  as  an  "inspiration."  Mrs.  Mendall 
could  not  forget  that  sudden  passionate  exclamation 
of  his. 

After  hours  of  painful  thought  that  set  shadows 
beneath  her  eyes,  Mrs.  Mendall  decided  that,  even  if 
she  had  to  make  the  suggestion  herself,  Marie  must 
leave  their  house.  When  MacAllister  returned  he  must 
find  another  home  for  her.  She  was  glad  when  Marie 
of  her  own  accord  suspended  her  drawing  lessons.  It 
left  Mendall  without  occupation  and  a  prey  to  rest- 
lessness, but  that  was  preferable  to  his  having  the  girl 
in  his  studio. 

"I  think,  Madame,  I  shall  not  be  in  the  studio  for 


288  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

a  time,"  Marie  had  announced,  on  the  one  occasion 
when  she  had  appeared  at  the  breakfast  table.  "I  do 
not  feel  well." 

"I  am  sorry.  Is  there  nothing  we  can  do  for  you?" 
Mrs.  Mendall  had  returned  politely. 

"Thank  you,  Madame,  I  wish  only  to  be  alone," 
Marie  had  replied,  and  as  if  the  mere  effort  of  speak- 
ing had  strained  her  endurance  to  the  breaking-point, 
she  had  muttered,  "Pardon — "  and  had  left  the  table. 

Mendall  had  said  nothing.  He  looked  neither  at 
his  wife  nor  at  Marie.  He  finished  his  breakfast  hur- 
riedly and  went  out  for  one  of  his  interminable  walks. 
He  was  waiting  in  almost  intolerable  suspense  for  Mac- 
Allister's  return. 

Mendall  was  enduring  the  foretaste  of  what  life 
without  Marie  would  be.  His  wife's  quiet  manner 
did  not  deceive  him;  she  was  wretched  and  yet  de- 
termined. That  watchful  guardianship  of  him  that 
had  put  to  flight  every  woman  with  whom  he  had 
played  was  on  the  alert.  His  hot  exclamation  had 
undone  him.  Marie  would  be  removed  from  him — 
unless  Marie  refused  to  be  eliminated.  But  what  hope 
was  there  of  any  solution  as  long  as  she  was  in  the 
grip  of  an  anxiety  that  seemed  to  be  driving  her  mad? 

Mendall  waited  and  from  a  distance  watched  Marie. 
She  had  returned  to  the  habits  of  the  first  two  weeks 
she  had  spent  with  them;  she  lived  in  her  room  or 
out-of-doors.  But  she  never  went  out  of  sight  of 
the  house.  She  sat  always  where  she  could  see  the 
driveway.    When  night  came  she  made  Mendall  think 


STORM   CLOUDS  289 

of  a  newly  caged  animal.  Her  light  footsteps  padded 
about  over  his  head,  circling  and  recircling  the  four 
walls  of  her  room,  until,  driven  wild  with  restlessness, 
he  would  catch  up  his  hat  and  go  out.  She  seemed 
to  be  stirring  at  all  hours  of  the  night.  Did  she  never 
sleep?  Mendall  forgot  himself  sometimes  in  anxiety 
over  her.  She  would  break  if  this  sort  of  thing  con- 
tinued. 

On  Monday  afternoon,  the  fourth  day  since  Mrs. 
Kotany's  party,  Mendall  had  gone  out.  Marie  was 
shut  up  in  her  room,  and  though  the  heat  was  ap- 
palling, Mrs.  Mendall  seized  the  opportunity  to  go 
into  Laclasse.  She  must  secure  another  maid  and  she 
wanted  also  to  inquire  about  MacAllister.  To  her 
other  acute  anxieties  was  added  the  fear  that,  if  things 
went  on  as  they  were,  Marie  would  be  seriously  ill. 
The  girl  ate  almost  nothing,  and  Mrs.  Mendall  guessed 
that  she  slept  as  little.  Her  husband  appeared  to  have 
gone  for  one  of  his  long  tramps;  Mrs.  Mendall  made 
her  preparations  and  went  without  a  word  to  anybody. 

Mendall  had  not  gone  for  a  walk;  it  was  too  hot 
for  that.  Even  the  dry  furnace-like  breath  panted 
from  the  lungs  of  the  Great  Desert  had  died  so  com- 
pletely that,  emboldened  by  the  stirless  calm  of  its 
enemy,  the  blue  haze  had  crept  up  from  the  Missouri, 
up  the  sightly  slopes  of  Laclasse  and  the  hills  of  Belle- 
vue,  and  had  mingled  with  the  deadly  glare  of  the 
sun.  Mendall  had  gone  down  into  the  ravine,  which 
still  held  a  little  of  the  coolness  collected  during  the 
last  week.    Yet  even  in  his  retreat  he  felt  the  oven- 


290  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

like  heat  grow  intolerably  moist  and  thick.  The 
banked  clouds,  though  they  hung  low,  were  still  too 
fleecelike  to  be  sullen,  but  at  any  moment  they  might 
scowl  blackly,  writhe  and  twist,  swoop  down  and  smite. 
All  nature  seemed  to  be  standing  still  in  hot  apprehen- 
sion of  the  thing  that  might  strike — or  pass  on  down 
the  great  thoroughfare  of  storms,  the  great  Mississippi 
Valley. 

Mendall  was  reminded  of  the  breathless  hush  of 
the  tropics,  the  lull  before  an  outbreak  of  fury — and 
of  Marie.  Everything  in  nature  reminded  him  of 
Marie.  .  .  .  He  had  lain  on  the  ground  for  two 
hours,  almost  motionless,  and  yet  every  nerve  in  him 
was  jumping.  .  .  .  He  got  up,  finally,  and  with 
eyes  lifted  to  Marie's  windows,  climbed  the  terrace. 
If  there  was  a  storm  coming  he  would  watch  it  from 
the  studio.  Marie  would  probably  be  in  the  room 
above  him,  watching  it  from  her  windows. 


XLIII 

BENEATH  THE  TIGER'S  COAT 

THE  house  was  dark  and  still  when  Mendall  came 
into  it;  Mrs.  Mendall  had  drawn  every  blind. 
His  studio  was  also  dark,  and  groping  to  the  end  of 
the  room,  he  opened  two  of  the  casement  windows. 

"Sefior — "  a  soft  thick  voice  behind  him  said. 

Mendall  whirled.    "You,  Marie !" 

She  sat  on  the  couch,  among  the  heat  of  the  pil- 
lows. He  came  swiftly  and  stood  over  her.  "So 
you've  come  at  last?" 

"Yes — I  have  wished  to  come." 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  impetuously,  but  she  drew 
herself  together.    "Your  chair  will  be  better,  Senor." 

Mendall  heeded  the  warning ;  he  looked  at  her  from 
a  distance.  Even  in  the  half  light  he  could  see  that 
she  was  heavy-eyed  and  leaden-hued. 

"You're  ill,  Marie." 

"No,  Senor,  only  very  unhappy." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,"  he  begged. 

"It  is  not  a  thing  of  which  I  can  speak." 

"I  will  keep  it— faithfully." 

"A  man — or  woman — who  will  deceive  once,  will 
do  so  again."  She  did  not  speak  scornfully;  simply 
as  stating  a  fact. 

291 


292  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

Mendall  flushed.    He  had  no  answer. 

"I  do  not  say  that  to  hurt  you/'  Marie  continued. 
"It  is  probably  what  will  be  said  to  me.  If  it  is,  I 
shall  have  only  my  deserts." 

Mendall  was  too  excited  to  ask  her  what  she  meant. 
He  was  too  eager  over  the  thing  which  was  all-impor- 
tant to  him.  "You're  going  to  come  after  this — just 
as  you  have?  If  you  want  to  come,  no  one  can  pre- 
vent it." 

"Circumstances  may  prevent,  Sefior.  Though  from 
the  beginning  there  has  been  a  quarrel  beneath  our 
friendship,  I  have  enjoyed  coming.  It  has  been  home 
to  me  in  your  studio.  I  am  accustomed  to  studios, 
and  the  strangenesses  of  artists.  You  have  great  tal- 
ent; I  have  known  that  from  the  beginning,  also.  If 
I  can  not  come  I  shall  be  sorry,  but  my  future  is  un- 
certain." 

"Have  you  come  to  say  good-by?"  Mendall  asked 
thickly. 

"No,  not  that.  I  hope  not  that.  I  am  only  waiting. 
It  has  been  hard — to  wait — "  Her  voice  faltered  as 
it  had  when  she  pleaded  with  the  Chinaman  for  a 
message  from  MacAllister. 

"When  MacAllister  comes  will  you  know  ?"  Mendall 
demanded. 

"Yes." 

Mendall  drew  a  quick  breath.  "The  Lord  bring 
him  then!  .  .  .  Marie,  I've  been  like  a  habitue 
without  his  opium,  these  four  days." 

She  studied  him  for  a  moment.    Then  she  said,  with 


BENEATH    THE   TIGER'S    COAT      293 

conviction:  "Yes,  it  is  like  that  with  you — that  and 
nothing  more." 

Mendall  was  beside  her  on  the  instant.  "It's  every- 
thing, Marie!  I  was  going  under  when  you  came! 
Without  you—" 

Though  she  caught  her  breath,  Marie  put  his  arms 
away  determinedly.  "Be  silent,  Senor!  I  know  per- 
fectly how  it  was  with  you,  and  I  can  see  how  it  will 
be!  I  did  not  come  for  such  talk.  ...  I  wish 
to  see  that  thing  you  have  painted  of  me.  I  came  for 
that." 

Mendall  got  up  and  walked  the  floor  in  his  effort 
for  self-control.  Marie  put  her  hands  to  her  eyes  and 
pressed  them,  as  if  either  they  ached  intolerably,  or 
she  wanted  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  his  aimless  move- 
ments. 

Mendall  came  back  to  her  finally.  "Do  you  want  to 
pose?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  he  tried  to  make  even. 

"I  wish  only  to  see  the  painting,"  she  repeated  stead- 
ily. "It  is  late  afternoon;  it  would  not  be  possible  to 
paint  in  this  light." 

"Very  well." 

Mendall  brought  it  from  the  closet  and  placed  it. 
He  raised  the  shades  of  the  north  windows.  The 
clouds  had  darkened,  massing  to  hide  the  red-gold  sun- 
set which  was  on  the  way.  It  turned  the  world  queerly 
yellow ;  made  the  greens  without  unnaturally  vivid. 

It  deepened  the  golden  tints  in  the  thing  he  had 
painted.  Hair,  eyes,  flesh,  were  aglow;  one  felt  the 
yellow  tint  of  the  body  through  the  russet  sheath  im- 


294  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

posed  upon  it ;  even  to  the  blood-red  cover  of  the  couch 
the  storm  light  gave  golden  tints.  The  thing  was  very 
completely  Mendall's  conception  of  a  half-breed  De- 
lilah, a  golden  woman  with  arms  lifted,  head  thrown 
back,  and  bust  triumphant;  her  lip  curved  in  a  slight 
smile,  and  her  eyes  lowered  to  a  yellow  gleam,  sleepily 
intent,  sensuously,  luxuriantly  alive.  And  it  was  Ma- 
rie— as  one  might  easily  imagine  she  would  be;  as 
many  would  judge  her  to  be. 

Mendall  had  done  his  work  boldly  and  yet  subtly, 
exultant  in  his  conception,  tender  in  his  handling  of 
color.  He  had  succeeded  in  eliminating  crudities.  It 
was  the  best  work  he  had  ever  done,  and  he  knew  it. 

As  he  drew  back  from  the  painting,  he  was  caught 
away  from  his  excited  thoughts  by  the  velvety  rich- 
ness the  queerly  yellow  light  gave  to  the  flesh  tints. 
"Jove !  It  ought  to  be  hung  under  a  skylight  darkened 
by  yellow!"  he  muttered.  "This  light  would  make 
the  flesh  tints  of  a  white  woman — bluish — ghastly — " 
He  stood  for  a  time,  meditating  on  light  effects,  com- 
pletely forgetful  of  Marie. 

But  Marie  had  heard.  She  lifted  a  little,  looking  at 
him ;  then  at  the  painting,  then  at  him  again,  steadily, 
her  hand  opening  and  closing  as  if  on  a  weapon. 

But  she  said  nothing.  She  got  up  slowly  and  came 
to  his  side. 

"You  see  what  this  light  does  to  her  flesh?"  Men- 
dall said,  still  intent  on  the  painting.  "I'd  like  to  get 
just  that  overlaying  of  softness  and  warmth  with  my 
brush— " 


BENEATH    THE   TIGER'S    COAT      295 

"Yes,  I  see/' 

Mendall  turned  quickly  to  look  at  her,  galvanized  by 
the  way  in  which  she  spoke  the  three  words.  Even 
when  he  saw  the  glare  in  her  eyes  he  did  not  realize 
the  significance  of  what  he  had  said. 

Marie  pointed  to  the  painting.  "Sefior,  you  have 
enjoyed  painting  that?" 

"You  know  I  have,"  he  said,  puzzled  by  her  anger 
and  her  purposeful  manner. 

"Sufficiently  to  repay  you  for  your  work  ?" 

"It  wasn't  work — painting  you  would  never  be 
work!" 

"I  have  a  request  to  make,  then,  Sefior — will  you 
give  it  to  me  for  mine?" 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  his  face  growing 
black.  "You  don't  intend  to  let  me  paint  you  any 
more.  You  want  to  take  it  and  yourself  away  from 
me?" 

"No,  Sefior.  I  should  not  think  of  removing  it  from 
your  studio.  ...  I  do  not  wish  to  remove  myself, 
either — I  have  told  you  I  have  enjoyed  being  here." 

"It  is  yours,  of  course;  there's  no  one  has  a  better 
right  to  it." 

"I  treat  it,  then,  as  mine."  She  went  to  the  canvas 
and  taking  up  the  palette  knife  from  the  ledge  of  the 
easel,  slashed  it  from  top  to  bottom  and  the  face  of 
the  Delilah  up  and  down  and  across.  Then  flinging 
down  the  knife  she  faced  Mendall's  petrifaction,  her 
eyes  ablaze  and  her  head  held  high. 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence,  through  the  moments 


296  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

in  which  the  color  ebbed  from  his  face,  leaving  him 
ominously  blue  about  the  lips. 

He  came  slowly  toward  her  then.  "You've — de- 
stroyed— the  best  thing  I've  ever — done,"  he  said 
stiffly.    "How  dare  youl" 

He  seized  her  by  the  arms  with  a  grip  that  shook 
her.  "How  dare  you  ruin  a  beautiful  thing!"  he  re- 
peated through  his  teeth.    "You  jungle-cat !" 

Marie  met  his  rage  with  her  yellow  smile.  "I  am 
primitive  enough  to  avenge  an  insult,  Senor." 

"I  painted  the  truth  of  you !"  he  said  brutally. 

"Non — you  did  not.  I  am  not,  and  I  never  have 
been  that  thing!  You  painted  your  prejudiced  con- 
ception of  me  only.  That  has  been  our  quarrel  from 
the  beginning.  It  was  that  brought  me  into  your 
studio  and  kept  me  here.  I  wanted  to  fight  your  con- 
ception; kill  it.  Did  you  think  for  one  moment  that 
I  should  let  that  evidence  of  it  live?  .  .  .  We  have 
had  our  little  struggle,  Senor,  and  I  have  come  out 
with  only  this  small  victory — you  should  be  generous." 

Mendall  dropped  her  arms;  he  was  returning  to 
reason.  He  looked  at  the  mutilated  painting  and  then 
at  her,  and  his  face  grew  blank.  "Victory !"  he  said. 
"You  certainly  have  it.  God  knows  you  have  taken 
possession  of  me!"  He  sat  down  and  took  his  head 
in  his  hands.    "Oh,  lord !    Why  did  you  come  at  all !" 

Marie  stood  looking  at  him.  "I  am  sorry,  Senor," 
she  said,  with  her  sudden  drop  to  softness.  "I  warned 
you  in  the  beginning  how  it  might  be." 

"What  does  such  a  warning  to  a  man  amount  to !" 


1    4    •      • 

,    <     < 

c          * 

••• 

'< «., 

• 

1  ••  • 

<  '  <  • 

c 

BENEATH    THE    TIGER'S    COAT      297 

"You  challenged  me,  and  I  took  up  the  challenge. 
But  you  know  that  I  have  not  tempted  you,  or  played 
with  you.  You  must  have  known  what  I  was  fighting 
for — a  vindication  of  myself.  The  first  time  you 
looked  into  my  eyes,  the  morning  I  sat  ill  and  terrified 
at  your  table,  you  classed  me  with  that  Tehuana  of 
yours,  a  creature  a  little  nearer  the  animals  than  you 
think  yourself  to  be.  Then,  when  I  showed  you  that 
I  possessed  the  brain  of  a  white  woman,  you  con- 
ceived this  idea  of  me  you  have  painted.  Do  you  think 
that  did  not  hurt  me?  It  hurt  me  and  it  made  me 
angry.  I  have  suffered  much  because  of  my  yellow 
skin — my  tiger's  coat.  As  long  as  I  live  I  expect  to 
suffer  because  of  it.  I  am  accustomed  to  men — and 
women — who  can  see  no  deeper  than  my  skin;  who 
will  not  look  beneath  the  tiger's  coat  to  see  what  man- 
ner of  woman  it  covers.  .  .  .  During  these  weeks 
I  have  shown  you  myself — without  affectation  or  pre- 
tense. I  even  threw  away  the  little  conventions — it  is 
not  possible  to  be  quite  one's  self  when  tied  by  them. 
And  still  you  were  determined  not  to  advance  further 
in  your  opinion  of  me  than  this  ugly  half-breed  De- 
lilah that  I  have  just  stabbed.  .  .  .  But,  Senor,  if 
you  wish  the  exact  truth:  I  think  that  she  long  ago 
became  merely  a  bit  of  defiance,  and  that  in  your 
heart  you  feel  I  am  not  as  she.  So  it  is  true  what  you 
say :  that  the  victory  is  mine." 

Mendall  got  up.  "It  is  true,"  he  said.  "And  it's 
true  that  I  don't  feel  to  you  as  I  should  to  the  woman 
in  my  painting.    I  love  you  as  I  love  color — as  I  love 


298  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

my  work."  He  took  her  by  the  arms,  looking  into  her 
eyes.  "Let's  have  all  the  truth  while  we're  about  it. 
Marie,  it  hasn't  been  all  defiance  with  you,  any  more 
than  it  has  been  with  me.  You've  enjoyed  being  here 
with  me.  The  artist  in  you  answers  to  the  artist  in 
me — in  these  weeks  haven't  you  learned  to  care  a 
little?  .  .  .  I'm  not  asking  for  anything — you 
wouldn't  give  it  to  me  anyway — but  you're  not  afraid 
of  the  truth,  you're  too  much  mistress  of  yourself. 
.    .    .    Tell  me!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No.  Not  as  you  would  have 
me  care.  I  understand  you,  Senor.  I  am  completely 
at  home  with  you.  I  could  work  with  you — but 
love — "  She  hesitated,  then  said  clearly,  "I  love  a 
man  so  dearly  that  every  other  man  is  far  away  from 
me. 

"Some  one — here?"  Mendall  asked  blankly. 

"Yes,  Senor." 

His  brows  lifted,  a  look  of  consternation.  "But, 
Marie,  with  your — inheritance !  .  .  .  What  can  you 
expect?" 

Her  eyes  glistened  with  sudden  tears.  "I  do  not 
know — what  to  expect.  I  do  not  know — I  do  not 
know  at  all — " 

"So  Margaret  is  right,"  Mendall  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"It's  a  tragedy.  .  .  .  And  that's  the  reason  you 
have  walked  your  floor  like  a  wild  thing !  .  .  .  Even 
though  he  loves  you,  MacAllister  won't  stand  for  a 
deceit." 

Marie  caught  her  breath  and  shrank. 


BENEATH    THE    TIGER'S    COAT      299 

"MacAllister  is  your  father  and  he  loves  you,  but 
he's  not  the  man  to  practise  deceit  on  another  man. 
What  hope  is  there  for  you?"  Mendall  persisted  with 
the  cruelty  of  the  jealous. 

Marie  stiffened,  her  eyes  fierce,  in  spite  of  the  tears 
that  hung  on  their  lashes.  "He  has  treated  me  like  a 
father,  but  that  does  not  make  him  my  father,"  she 
said  sharply.    "He  is  not  my  father — far  from  it !" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  deny  it ;  the  truth  is  safe  with 
me !"  Mendall  exclaimed.  "Margaret  has  known  from 
the  beginning  that  MacAllister  was  your  father — she 
knew  your  mother.  She  didn't  tell  me  the  whole  story 
until  the  other  night,  but  when  she  did  it  explained 
you." 

Marie's  eyes  narrowed.  "Have  your  various  sur- 
mises turned  your  brain?"  she  demanded  cuttingly. 
"Is  your  wife  also  insane?  James  Ogilvie,  a  cousin 
of  Monsieur  MacAllister,  was  my  father.  Monsieur 
MacAllister  is  no  more  my  father — than  you  are !" 

Mendall  could  not  doubt  the  absolute  certainty  of 
her  answer.  "But  he  has  a  daughter — "  he  said,  a  little 
vaguely,  for  another  certainty  was  gripping  him. 

"His  wife  and  his  child  died  years  ago.  I  know 
that  story  better  than  your  wife  does.  .  .  .  And  I 
know  also,  now,  why  your  wife  would  no  more  touch 
me  than  she  would  that  black  woman  who  has  slept 
opposite  me  all  these  weeks.  .  .  .  Some  things  are 
explained  to  me  also,  now.  .  .  .  But  what  does  it 
all  matter !  It  changes  nothing."  She  ended  wearily, 
her  hands  lifted  to  her  aching  temples. 


300  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

"And  it's  MacAllister  you  love — of  course — "  Men- 
dall  said  dully.  "That  will  take  you  away  from  me 
completely." 

Marie  dropped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him,  a 
steady  look,  a  sufficient  answer.  Then,  with  the  soft 
certain  movement  that  Mendall  loved,  that  neither  op- 
pression nor  weariness  could  make  ungraceful,  she 
went  out. 


XLIV 

AND  WITH   HER  WENT  INSPIRATION 

MENDALL  stood  for  a  time  where  Marie  had 
left  him,  looking  at  the  door  that  shut  her 
away.  .  .  .  She  was  having  her  day  of  trouble,  but 
MacAllister's  arms  would  close  about  her  in  the  end; 
she  was  lost  to  him.  .  .  .  And  with  her  went  in- 
spiration. 

When  he  moved  it  was  to  look  down  at  the  muti- 
lated painting,  emblem  of  disaster,  ruin,  the  end.  He 
faced  the  dreaded  blank:  day  in  and  day  out  of  mo- 
notony made  intolerable  by  the  ache  of  nerves  worn 
threadbare,  sickness  of  spirit,  barrenness,  sterility;  a 
domesticated  teacher  of  little  lines  and  curves  to  a 
coming  and  going  herd  of  idiots,  on  and  on,  until  he 
atrophied.  .  .  .  And  he  had  it  in  him  to  create  a 
golden  thing  like  that  torn  bit  of  beauty  on  the  floor! 

He  could  not  stand  up  under  it.  He  went  to  the 
couch  and  lay  with  face  pressed  against  his  folded 
arms.  .  ,  .  And,  as  he  lay,  there  came  reaction 
from  dazed  misery,  the  surge  upon  surge  of  longing 
to  run  from  the  future ;  to  gather  up  his  tools  and  go 
forth  to  starvation,  perhaps;  to  a  mighty  struggle, 
certainly,  but  with  the  power  to  create  undeadened  by 

301 


302  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

intolerable  shackles.  He  could  paint  in  an  attic,  in  a 
ditch,  anywhere,  if  there  was  within  him  the  sense  of 
freedom. 

Then,  as  always,  there  came  to  battle  with  craving 
the  hot  realization  of  necessity,  of  obligation.  His 
hands  gripped  the  couch,  an  actual  holding  himself 
down  to  the  burning  bed  he  had  made  for  himself. 
He  lay  choking  and  panting,  afraid  to  rise  lest  the 
mad  longing  to  escape  from  it  all  should  sweep  him 
out  and  away.  .  .  .  Then,  as  if  to  make  reminder 
more  poignant,  he  heard  the  opening  and  closing  of 
the  front  door,  Margaret's  short  quick  steps  in  the 
hall,  and  her  dutiful  descent  to  the  labors  that  made 
up  the  sum  of  her  day,  the  eternal,  unchanging  oiling 
of  the  wheels  upon  which  their  life  ran,  the  kitchen, 
the  supper  table,  the  anxious  scanning  of  the  little  bills 
upon  the  pantry  shelf.  .  .  .  And  presently  she 
would  open  their  bedroom  windows  to  the  hoped-for 
coolness  of  the  evening,  and  fold  back  the  sheet  that 
would  cover  them  when  they  lay  so  apparently  one 
and  in  reality  miles  apart;  her  small  reward  for  de- 
votion. 

The  iron  heel  of  necessity  ground  Mendall,  and  the 
bitter  lash  of  irony  scourged  him,  until  he  lay  spent. 
The  sharp  ringing  of  the  front  door-bell  did  not  stir 
him,  nor  Margaret's  hurried  ascent  from  the  kitchen. 
It  was  MacAllister's  incisive  voice  that  brought  him 
upright. 

"Yes,  I'm  back — where  is  Marie?" 

Margaret's  answer  was  a  murmur,  but  MacAllister's 


AND  WITH  HER  WENT  INSPIRATION     303 

reply  came  to  him  clearly  enough:  "Don't  ye  climb 
those  stairs,  Mrs.  Mendall.  Ye  look  as  if  the  heat 
had  done  for  ye.  She'll  hear  me  if  I  call,"  and  his 
big  voice  with  its  note  of  urgency  filled  the  house: 
"Marie !" 

Mendall  listened  with  breath  held,  the  blood  that 
pounded  in  him  making  even  his  eyes  hot.  But  there 
was  no  answering  movement  in  the  room  above. 

"She's  gone  out,  then,"  MacAllister  said.  "I  have 
a  guess  where  she'll  be,"  and  Mendall  heard  his  stride 
on  the  porch. 

He  got  up  and  went  to  the  window.  He  was  met 
by  a  blinding  sunset.  The  massed  clouds,  shot  through 
by  gold  and  vermilion,  were  stretching  threatening 
arms  to  the  angry  sun  as  it  retreated  to  the  horizon, 
its  search-light  rays  streaming  upon  the  hilltops, 
splashing  and  streaking  them  with  rainbow  hues. 
Twin  Oaks  Hill  flamed  with  color,  and  with  eyes  fixed 
on  it,  striding  toward  it,  was  MacAllister.  He  dipped 
into  the  ravine  and  was  lost  to  Mendall's  hot  gaze. 

Mendall  turned  back  into  the  stifling  room.  He 
staggered  a  little  as  he  made  for  the  door  and  the 
open.  The  dead  air  and  the  heat  of  passion  and  jeal- 
ousy combined  made  him  actually  sick, 


XLV 


THE  MEETING 


MacALLISTER  came  up  into  the  sunset  with 
eyes  searching  the  hillside,  then  fixed  on  a  bit 
of  gold  which,  as  it  slowly  lifted  against  the  sun's  rays, 
shone  like  a  nimbus  around  a  pallid  face.  He  knew 
that  Marie  saw  him  coming,  for  she  stood  up,  her  full 
height  outlined  against  the  sky.  It  was  usual  for  her 
to  wait  for  his  approach  in  this  fashion.  It  was  part 
of  the  aloofness  he  had  grown  to  expect,  but  he  had 
been  away  and  had  returned  without  warning;  he  had 
decided  that  she  would  come  to  meet  him.  Instead, 
she  was  waiting,  and  with  a  face  that  was  set  and 
white.    He  came  on  hurriedly. 

But  when  he  was  near  enough  for  her  to  see  his 
eyes,  she  did  come,  and  with  a  suddenness  that  took 
his  breath,  with  a  swoop  as  light  and  as  swift  as  a 
bird's,  her  hand  held  to  her  heart,  as  if  it  had  stopped 
beating  and  then  too  suddenly  flooded  her  with  dusky 
color.  She  stopped  short,  a  check  on  herself  as  it 
were,  but  she  had  come  within  reach  of  his  hands,  and 
when  they  settled  on  her  and  she  met  fully  the  light 
in  his  eyes,  she  grew  ashen  and  swayed  in  a  way  that 
frightened  him. 

304 


THE   MEETING  305 

She  let  him  take  her  in  his  arms.  "What  is  it, 
Marie?"  he  asked  huskily.    "What  is  it,  dear?" 

She  let  him  hold  her,  and  MacAllister  caught  her 
prayer  of  gratitude,  whispered  in  the  tongue  most 
natural  to  her.  Her  hand  lifted  to  his  burning  cheek, 
as  if  she  needed  by  actual  touch  to  convince  herself 
of  his  warmly  breathing  presence. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  he  begged. 

But,  when  he  strained  her  to  him,  and  tried  to  kiss 
her  she  drew  herself  away  confusedly,  and  yet  with 
decision.  "You  went — so  suddenly — and  I  was 
frightened,"  she  gasped. 

It  was  the  same  avoidance  of  caresses,  the  holding 
herself  apart,  that  had  maddened  him  with  uncertainty 
during  the  last  weeks,  and  also  the  usual  solicitude 
over  him,  only  intensified,  which  had  held  him  fast 
bound.  He  had  not  known  how  to  cope  with  it ;  he  did 
not  know  now  just  how  to  meet  it.  Her  eyes  were 
glistening,  her  lips  quivering;  there  was  gladness  in 
her  broken  speech,  the  color  of  relief  in  her  cheeks, 
and  yet  she  held  him  off.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  her. 

"Ye  thought  harm  would  come  to  me,  did  ye?"  He 
laughed  unsteadily.  "What  did  ye  think  would  harm 
me,  now?" 

"You  went  without  a  word  to  me — and  I  didn't 
know.    But  now  you  are  here — quite  here !" 

"But  I  wrote  ye !  Didn't  ye  get  it,  then?  ...  I 
wrote,  and  sent  it  out  to  ye  at  the  dance !" 

She  looked  her  surprise.    "But  I  didn't  get  it !" 


306  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

Her  gladness  and  relief  were  somewhat  clearer  to 
him  now.  "Why,  I  sent  it  by  messenger — what  went 
with  it  then,  I'd  like  to  know?  ...  I  was  in  an 
awful  hurry,  or  I'd  not  have  gone  without  seeing  ye. 
They'd  telegraphed  me  that  the  letters  of  Townley's 
we'd  intercepted  here  had  given  them  the  clue  they 
wanted;  that  they  thought  they  had  my  man  and  they 
wanted  my  evidence.  I  had  only  a  little  time  in  which 
to  plan  Townley's  arrest,  and  to  do  a  hundred  other 
things,  but  I  wrote  to  ye,  Marie,  telling  ye  how  it  was 
— I'd  never  have  gone  without  that." 

Marie's  face  was  suddenly  wiped  of  expression. 
"And  you  arrested  Townley?" 

Though  husky  with  emotion,  MacAllister  collected 
himself  enough  to  speak  steadily.  "No.  It  was  well 
planned,  but  he  gave  us  the  slip.  He  was  expecting 
me  to  telephone  him  to  come  back  down-town  for  me 
and  bring  me  out  to  the  dance,  and  that  was  what  I 
did;  he'd  have  walked  into  our  trap  then.  But  for 
some  reason  he  took  fright.  The  limousine  helped 
him  to  get  a  train — so  much  we've  discovered.  They're 
on  the  still  hunt  for  him  now,  but  they've  not  got  him 
so  far.  I  doubt  if  they  will — unless  that  man,  Mor- 
tola,  talks.  But  he's  not  likely  to  do  that.  He's  a 
smooth  devil.  He  persists  in  holding  his  tongue ;  he's 
probably  paid  to  do  it.  It  seems  he  was  one  of  the 
cleverest  strike  inciters  in  England.  Then  he  trans- 
ferred his  talents  to  this  country.  TheyVe  connected 
him  with  the  strike  at  Beverly,  and  it's  probable  he 
was  after  the  powder  mills  in  Indiana.    It's  there  we 


THE    MEETING  307 

got  him,  and  it's  there  I've  been.  We  can  prove  that 
he  was  in  league  with  the  Austrians  here,  but  we  want 
the  men  higher  up — we  want  to  know  who  and  what 
backed  such  as  Mortola.  There  are  a  lot  of  us  in  the 
same  boat,  and  we  want  government  help  in  the  mat- 
ter. And  we're  going  to  get  it,  only  it  will  be  slow 
going  for  a  time.  I  want  Kraup  and  a  few  of  his 
kind  on  the  witness-stand.  He'd  not  relish  a  federal 
indictment,  I'm  thinking!  ...  It  was  yer  keenness 
helped  forge  a  link  in  the  chain,  Marie.  I'm  proud  of 
yer  quick  brain,  and  I'm  grateful  to  ye."  MacAllister 
spoke  of  the  occurrences  of  the  last  few  days  with  no 
elation,  but  when  he  mentioned  Andrew  Kraup  his 
voice  rose  into  harshness. 

Marie  had  relaxed  when  he  said  Townley  had 
escaped,  but  she  wore  no  look  of  joy,  even  when  he 
praised  her.  '1  served  you,  so  I  am  happy  in  that, 
no  matter  what  comes,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  sent 
your  letter  out  to  me  by  a  messenger  thinking  it  would 
be  safe,  but  I  think  that  by  some  means  Townley  in- 
tercepted it.    It  told  him  enough,  and  he  went." 

"I  wonder  now  if  ye're  not  just  right!"  MacAllister 
exclaimed.    'That  was  it,  for  a  certainty !" 

"I  think  so,"  Marie  said  in  the  same  quiet  way. 

MacAllister  drew  an  impatient  breath.  " Weel,  let 
him  go!  I've  been  thinking  these  last  few  days — it's 
nasty  business,  this  searching  out  criminals,  and  feel- 
ing suspicious  of  one's  next-door  neighbor,  and  look- 
ing askance  even  at  one's  own  servants.  I'm  sick  of 
it.     And  it  always  makes  ye  look  frightened,  talking 


308  THE   NIGER'S   COAT] 

of  all  this  violence.  There's  a  deal  of  common  sense 
in  this  idea  that's  interesting  Bagsby  and  others :  that 
there  should  be  a  group  of  international  forces  em- 
powered by  the  nations  to  apply  economic  pressure  in 
such  fashion  as  to  prevent  war.  War's  just  nothing 
but  an  outrageous  waste — that's  sure.  .  .  .  But 
come  and  sit  down,  Marie.  Come  up  with  me  to  the 
place  that's  been  our  parlor  many  an  evening !  I  want 
to  talk  of  other  things." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her  with  a  commingling  of 
pleading  and  determination  and  kept  it  outstretched 
until  she  reluctantly  put  her  hand  in  his. 


XLVI 


JUST  LOVE 

THEY  went  up  to  the  hollow  between  the  twin 
trees.  It  dipped  so  sharply  that  it  offered  a 
couch-like  seat,  its  rim  a  rest  for  Marie's  head,  and 
for  MacAllister's  arm.  It  was  thickly  matted  with 
grass  which  the  burning  sun  of  the  last  few  days  had 
dried  to  hay,  a  resting  place,  clean,  soft  and  sweet. 
The  sun  had  dropped  suddenly,  its  brow  only  visible 
above  the  horizon,  but  it  still  blazed  defiance.  Its  level 
rays  were  so  piercing  that  they  turned  their  backs  upon 
them  and  the  massed  clouds.  The  eastern  sky  glowed 
richly,  almost  to  the  zenith,  free  of  threatening  clouds. 
Below  them  were  the  wooded  hills,  their  tops  lighted 
by  the  departing  sun,  their  bases  merged  in  the  shad- 
owed ravines;  and  beyond  that,  undulating  distances 
of  yellowing  harvest. 

MacAllister  looked  off  over  it.  "Eh,  what  a  coun- 
try!" he  said.  "I'm  glad  it  nourished  me — "  and  then 
he  looked  at  Marie,  a  steadily  purposeful  look. 

He  was  resting  on  his  elbow,  his  hand  buried  in  his 
shock  of  sandy  hair;  he  could  look  down  at  her,  but 
she  must  tip  her  head  back  to  see  his  face.  She  sat 
with  hands  clasped  about  her  knees,  gazing  into  dis- 

309 


310  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

tance  with  that  unwinking  steadiness  of  hers.  The 
anxiety  of  the  last  week  had  left  its  mark  on  her;  her 
cheeks  had  thinned;  there  were  shadows  under  her 
eyes,  the  hint  of  tragic  resolve  about  her  firmly  pressed 
lips ;  she  looked  thirty  rather  than  twenty. 

MacAllister  was  in  the  grip  of  the  accumulated  emo- 
tion of  the  last  six  weeks  and  he  meant  now  to  have  his 
say;  the  five  days  without  her  had  driven  him  beyond 
the  point  where  even  her  consummate  skill  could  re- 
strain him.  But  he  paused  for  a  moment.  One  may 
think  much  and  swiftly  in  a  few  short  moments,  and 
as  MacAllister  looked  at  Marie  he  thought  of  many 
things.  He  went  back  in  swift  restrospect  to  the  boy 
whose  great  urge  was  to  acquire;  to  the  well-remem- 
bered day  when  he  first  became  conscious  of  the  de- 
sire to  marry  and  build  a  home  as  well  as  a  fortune. 
He  thought  of  the  gay-spirited,  inconsequential  girl 
who  had  first  aroused  in  him  the  passionate  desire  for 
a  mate,  for  a  home,  for  children;  for  man's  natural 
and  complete  equipment.  And  he  thought,  as  always, 
with  sickening  distinctness  of  the  shock  of  discovery; 
of  his  fury  at  the  deceit  her  weakness  had  made  pos- 
sible; of  his  despair,  and  the  hard  resolve  that  had 
exiled  her  and  their  child  to  a  country  that  would  look 
with  leniency  on  their  unfortunate  inheritance.  He 
thought  of  the  years  that  had  followed,  when  he  had 
toiled  for  their  maintenance  and  his  own;  of  the  shock 
of  his  wife's  death,  and  the  joyless  arrangements  for 
his  child's  future ;  and  then  of  the  commingled  yearn- 
ing and  regret  that  had  taken  hold  on  him  when  his 


"JUST    LOVE"  311 

child  also  had  gone,  the  small  creature  whose  coming 
had  been  an  agony,  and  over  whose  future  he  had 
brooded  with  a  feeling  of  actual  sickness. 

That  commingling  of  yearning  and  regret  had  never 
left  him.  It  was  a  bit  of  nature  that  had  mastered 
him.  He  was  no  longer  tied  to  a  salaried  position  that 
gave  him  no  scope;  there  was  no  one  dependent  on 
him ;  he  was  free  to  go ;  free  to  gamble  with  the  small 
sum  he  had  saved.  He  had  returned  to  Laclasse,  and 
out  of  his  careful  management  had  grown  a  fortune. 
And  yet,  throughout  those  fifteen  years,  he  had  been 
ridden  by  regret. 

His  bitter  experience  had  made  him  averse  to  mar- 
riage, and  at  the  same  time  tender  to  the  fatherless. 
There  were  institutions  in  Nebraska  that  could  have 
told  curious  tales  of  the  large  anonymous  donations 
that  came  to  them  regularly.  There  was  a  Catholic 
home  for  abandoned  children  in  Laclasse  that  under 
compulsion  might  have  disclosed  the  fact  that  its  chief 
donor  was  Alexander  MacAllister. 

Youth  appealed  to  MacAllister.  If  in  those  strenu- 
ous years  of  erecting  a  fortune  he  had  met  a  girl  who 
aroused  in  him  an  unconquerable  desire  for  possession 
that  marriage  alone  would  satisfy,  the  same  over- 
whelming passion  he  had  felt  for  the  girl  he  had  mar- 
ried, he  would  have  married  again.  But  he  had  not. 
As  Bagsby  had  told  Clare,  there  were  infatuations 
that  had  resulted  in  unconventional  relations — and  the 
usual  denouement,  a  cessation  of  interest.  Freda 
O'Rourke  had  aroused  in  him  the  most  lasting  interest 


312  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

he  had  felt  for  any  woman  during  his  fifteen  years  of 
bachelorhood,  and,  undoubtedly,  because,  in  a  physical 
way,  she  had  never  overwhelmingly  appealed  to  him, 
and  because  her  adherence  to  her  ideals  and  her  capac- 
ity for  unemotional  friendship  had  won  his  profound 
respect.  And  she  was  a  mature  woman,  only  a  little 
younger  than  himself.  In  theory,  MacAllister  would 
have  maintained  that  a  blameless  intimacy  such  as 
theirs  was  not  possible  between  a  man  and  woman, 
but  in  practise  it  had  proved  quite  possible.  Her 
house  had  given  him  the  comforts  of  home,  and  she 
herself  had  satisfied  his  need  of  intellectual  compan- 
ionship. She  had  braved  the  ill-opinion  of  Laclasse 
for  the  sake  of  their  friendship,  and  that  had  called 
upon  his  loyalty. 

Nevertheless  he  had  grown  restive  under  his  way  of 
life.  He  felt  that  he  was  living  to  no  purpose.  As 
Bagsby  often  told  him,  he  was  in  his  prime,  he  ought 
to  marry.  It  was  his  restlessness  that  had  urged  him 
to  build  himself  a  beautiful  home,  and,  though  he 
would  not  confess  it,  with  the  desire  for  marriage 
urging  him  to  it.  With  the  contrariety  of  the  man 
who  really  wants  a  mate,  he  was  the  more  bitter  in 
his  flings  against  matrimony.  He  was  dissatisfied  with 
himself. 

And  so  it  had  been  with  him  when  Marie  came. 
She  was  the  child  of  a  cousin  whose  existence  he  had 
forgotten.  He  had  known  James  Ogilvie  in  Mexico 
and  had  not  liked  him.  He  had  met  Ogilvie's  French 
wife,  and  had  seen  Marie  when  she  was  a  baby.    Mac- 


"JUST    LOVE"  313 

Allister  knew  that  after  his  wife's  death  Ogilvie  had 
sent  his  daughter  to  Belgium  to  school,  more  because 
he  wanted  to  be  free  of  responsibility  than  with  any 
great  interest  in  her  welfare.  Marie's  coming  to  him 
for  help  was  one  of  the  unexpected  things  that  only 
the  world  turmoil  would  have  made  possible.  She  had 
instantly  captured  his  interest.  She  was  fatherless, 
homeless  and  his  own  kinswoman.  Though  her  Latin 
blood  was  apparent  enough,  she  was  curiously  like  her 
Scotch  father.  His  features  were  easily  traceable  in 
hers.  There  had  been  a  touch  of  the  tiger  in  James 
Ogilvie.  He  was  tawny,  not  sandy  like  the  Mac- 
Allisters. 

In  the  beginning  his  attitude  to  Marie  had  been 
somewhat  comically  paternal.  He  was  too  young  for 
the  part.  He  had  studied  her  with  tremendous  in- 
terest, particularly  her  bewildering  blossoming  into 
beauty.  The  manner  in  which  she  had  come  into  his 
arms  on  the  morning  of  the  explosion  had  banished 
forever  his  conception  of  her  as  an  interesting  child. 
She  had  thrilled  him;  captured  him.  For  a  time  he 
had  fought  against  it.  He  had  lain  awake  because  of 
it;  walked  the  floor  because  of  it;  dreamed  of  it  in  his 
office,  and  cursed  himself  because  of  it.  All  his  forty- 
four  years  of  hard  sense  were  opposed  to  it.  He  was 
more  than  twice  her  age ;  the  thing  was  impossible. 

Then  under  the  stress  of  a  passion  he  could  not  con- 
quer he  had  flung  aside  his  doubts  and  had  made  his 
desires  apparent  enough  to  Marie.  He  had  laid  siege 
to  her,  courted  her  determinedly,  though  for  her  own 


314  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

sake  he  was  careful  of  his  conduct  before  others;  he 
could  not  bear  the  thought  that  ugly  comment  might 
touch  her. 

And  she  had  driven  him  to  the  point  of  despair. 
Since  the  morning  of  the  explosion  her  manner  had 
altered.  With  the  skill  that  is  at  the  command  of  even 
an  inexperienced  girl,  she  had  forced  him  to  wait, 
deluged  him  with  uncertainty.  Though  quick  to  lend 
herself  to  the  only  course  that  MacAllister  thought 
would  make  her  introduction  to  Laclasse  a  possibility, 
she  held  herself  aloof.  She  would  permit  no  caresses; 
and  when  driven  into  a  corner  by  his  urgency  showed 
such  genuine  distress  that  he  was  forced  to  desist. 

When  he  had  told  her  in  what  guise  he  meant  to 
introduce  her  to  Laclasse  society,  she  had  asked :  "And 
you  wish  me  to  please  your  friends,  Monsieur?  To 
make  myself  quite  charming ?" 

"Yes,"  he  had  replied.  "This  is  to  be  yer  home,  and 
my  people  yer  people.  Ye  know  what  it  is  I  want, 
Marie.  I  want  yer  love;  I  want  ye  for  my  very 
own — " 

But  she  had  stopped  him.  "Monsieur,  don't — "  she 
had  begged.    "Please  don't — I  can  not  bear  it !" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  urged  her,  and  he  was 
not  to  be  silenced  at  once — not  until,  in  utter  distress, 
she  had  wrung  her  hands.  "You  beg  me  too  much.  I 
want  to  think — I  want  to  think  what  is  right,  and  you 
do  not  let  me  think.  You  have  done  everything  for 
me — I  do  not  know  what  to  do !" 

"If  ye'll  just  tell  me  that  it's  not  just  gratitude  and 


"JUST    LOVE"  315 

affection  ye  feel  for  me,  I'll  wait  yer  time?"  he  prom- 
ised. 

But  she  had  not  reassured  him.  Instead,  she  began 
to  weep,  and  so  bitterly  that  he  was  frightened. 

"I  seem  too  old  for  ye — ye're  doubtful  of  the  past 
and  of  the  future,"  he  had  said  from  the  depths  of  his 
own  distress.  It  was  her  youth  that  troubled  him  and 
at  the  same  time  called  upon  his  consideration. 

"To  me  you  are  all  that  is  fine  and  dear — but,  Mon- 
sieur, do  not  beg  me  so — please  do  not — " 

He  had  not  known  what  to  make  of  her.  But  what 
was  he  to  do  ? 

He  went  on  determinedly  with  his  plans  for  her.  If 
he  chose  at  a  future  time  to  announce  that  he  was  go- 
ing to  marry  his  ward  instead  of  adopting  her,  his  way 
would  be  clear.  He  had  presented  her  to  Laclasse,  and 
then  had  been  consumed  with  jealousy  over  the  atten- 
tions paid  her  by  such  men  as  Harmon  Kent.  He  had 
shown  Marie  how  he  suffered,  and  in  this  respect  she 
had  been  convincingly  clear.  Her  opinion  of  the  men 
she  met  was  so  scathingly  accurate  a  visioning  of  their 
defects  that  MacAllister  had  been  soothed.  And  even 
his  jealous  watchfulness  could  not  discover  that  she 
favored  one  more  than  another.  She  was,  as  she  ex- 
plained to  him,  simply  "charming  Laclasse." 

To  him  she  was  always  utterly  sweet;  solicitous, 
eager  to  please,  infinitely  entertaining.  And  she  had 
the  poise  of  an  experienced  woman,  except  when  he 
forgot  restraint,  and  then  he  was  met  by  a  distress 
that  verged  on  desperation.     He  was  near  to  despera- 


316  THE    TIGER'S    COAT 

tion  himself.  He  had  settled  into  the  belief  that  her 
youth  was  doubtful  of  that  past  of  his;  man's  fund  of 
experience  of  which  a  girl  knows  so  little.  Driven  by 
a  sort  of  desperate  honesty,  he  had  tried  to  confess 
himself,  and  she  had  stopped  him. 

She  had  winced  and  grown  scarlet.  "Don't,  Mon- 
sieur! I  understand — I  understand  far  better  than 
you  think.  And  I  understand  you.  You  would  never 
wish  to  hurt  what  you  thought  was  good." 

But  MacAUister  did  not  recover  from  his  feeling 
of  utter  unworthiness,  even  when  he  told  her  of  his 
blameless  friendship  for  Freda.  To  this  she  had  lis- 
tened with  an  intensity  of  interest  that  paled  her. 
"Freda  is  just  pure  gold !"  he  had  concluded  with  no 
little  feeling. 

"And,  Monsieur — this  woman  whom  you  feel  so 
good  and  fine — she  has  been  to  you  a  true  friend  for 
six  long  years — "  It  was  more  a  statement  than  a 
question.  Marie's  eyes  had  narrowed,  her  voice  grown 
husky. 

"She's  the  best  friend  I  have,"  MacAUister  had  an- 
swered decidedly. 

"And  you  say  women  have  been  unkind  to  her. 
.  .  .  Monsieur,  will  you  take  me  to  see  her — this 
friend  of  yours?" 

MacAUister  would  have  taken  her  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth  if  she  had  asked  it;  he  was  glad  to  take  her 
to  Freda;  glad  that,  girl  though  she  was,  she  shared 
his  indignation  at  those  who  woulH  not  understand. 


"JUST   LOVE"  317 

With  man's  usual  density,  he  had  explained  Marie's 
almost  breathless  interest  in  that  way. 

He  had  taken  her  to  see  Freda  and  for  the  first  few 
moments  he  had  been  puzzled  by  the  intent,  narrow- 
eyed  way  in  which  Marie  had  regarded  Freda.  But 
almost  immediately  she  had  slipped  into  sweetness. 
She  had  been  charming  to  Freda,  and  Freda  had  been 
her  usual  self,  gracious  and  well-poised  and  evidently 
deeply  interested  in  this  girl  whom  she  knew  he  loved. 

Just  before  he  had  been  called  away  MacAllister  had 
told  Marie  that  for  her  sake  he  would  not  go  on  with 
the  manufacture  of  ammunition;  that  he  was  turning 
over  to  other  companies  such  contracts  as  were  bind- 
ing, and  she  had  flushed  into  vivid  joy:  "Ah,  Mon- 
sieur, whether  for  my  sake  or  your  own  sake — I  am 
glad  you  do  not  go  on !" 

But  all  these  happenings  had  brought  MacAllister 
no  nearer  to  the  thing  he  craved.  During  his  five  days 
of  absence  he  had  decided  that,  whatever  the  result, 
he  must  have  a  definite  answer.  And,  now,  as  he 
looked  down  on  Marie's  white  immobility,  he  felt  that 
she  also  had  reached  some  decision.  He  was  terribly 
afraid  of  what  it  might  be.  But  though  tense  with 
excitement,  he  was  cool,  the  sort  of  coolness  that  had 
served  him  in  financial  crises. 

He  touched  her  hand.    "Marie — ?" 

She  shrank  and  gave  him  an  upward  glance,  then 
looked  away.  It  was  what  she  saw  in  his  face  that 
hurried  her  into  speech.    "Monsieur,  these  days  when 


318  THE   [TIGER'S   .COAT} 

you  have  been  gone,  I  have  thought — *hat,  now  I  have 
all  my  strength,  I  wish  to  do  some  work.  At  first  I 
was  quite  contented  just  that  you  do  everything  for 
me,  but  I  have  changed  my  way  of  thinking — of  many 
things.  I  am  sorry  for  my  old  way  of  thinking — and 
of  acting.  I  am  sorry  I  have  been  of  such  expense 
.  .  .  and  I  am  sorry  for  these  last  weeks — that  I 
have  not  told  you — that  I — "  she  stopped. 

MacAllister's  heart  constricted.  The  pain  he  was 
enduring  made  him  feel  physically  ill.  It  was  her  way 
of  telling  him  that  she  did  not  love  him,  not  in  the  way 
he  wanted. 

"What  do  ye  want  to  do  ?"  he  asked  tonelessly. 

Marie  kept  her  face  turned  from  him.  "There  is 
only  one  thing  I  can  do  well — I  can  act.  ...  It  is 
to  act  for  motion  pictures,  I  mean,"  she  continued 
steadily.  "I  can  do  that.  I — was  asked  to  do  that 
once.  I  have  the  kind  of  face  they  wish;  it  has 
shadows,  and  my  eyes  and  hair — are — remarkable — " 

MacAllister  caught  the  drop  and  break  in  her  voice, 
the  unconquerable  stress  of  pain.  He  bent  quickly  to 
look  at  her  averted  face  and  saw  the  quiver  of  her 
bitten  lips.  He  saw  that  her  hands  were  gripped  so 
tightly  that  the  knuckles  were  blue,  and  it  came  to  him, 
with  a  flash  of  relief  that  turned  the  world  golden,  that 
it  was  not  just  the  pain  she  knew  she  was  giving  him 
that  tortured  her. 

He  took  her  twisting  hands  and  drew  them  apart 
and  turned  her  to  him,  trying  to  make  her  look  at  him. 
"Tell  me  first  of  all  that  ye  don't  love  me — as  I  love 


"JUST    LOVE"  319 

ye,"  he  demanded.  "Tell  me  that — before  ye  say  any 
more!" 

She  was  silent,  her  body  unyielding  and  tense. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  held  her  tightly,  and 
with  his  free  hand  lifted  her  face  so  he  could  look  into 
her  eyes.  They  were  dull,  like  the  eyes  of  a  sick  ani- 
mal. "Tell  me,  Marie?"  he  asked  more  gently.  "Tell 
me,  dear?  ...  I  know  I'm  twice  yer  age,  but  I 
have  many  good  years  before  me,  and  I'd  love  ye 
dearly  to  the  very  last  day  of  my  life.  I  believe  now 
that  in  yer  heart  ye  love  me — just  as  I  love  ye.  Put 
away  yer  doubts,  dear.  Bide  with  me  and  be  my 
wife,  Marie?" 

She  relaxed  suddenly  into  a  trembling  that  shook 
her  from  head  to  foot.  "I  want  to  stay  with  you.  I 
want  to  be  your  wife  more  than  anything  in  the  world. 
But  I  am  not  good  enough  to  be  your  wife.  I  do  not 
do  right — often.  These  last  days  I  have  decided — it 
— the  best  thing  is  for  me  to  go  away.  I  would  not 
make  you  happy.  .  .  .  Monsieur — I — "  she  stopped 
as  if  driven  to  utter  desperation,  too  breathless  even 
for  tears. 

"Ye've  been  thinking  ye'd  not  make  me  happy!" 
MacAllister  cried. 

There  was  the  ring  almost  of  laughter  in  his  voice, 
the  note  of  triumph.  He  drew  her  down  until  she  lay 
embraced,  his  arm  beneath  her  head,  and  then  he 
turned  her  face  to  his.  "So  it's  yer  beautiful  gay- 
spirited  youth  has  been  troubling  ye !  Ye  'do  not  do 
right — often !'    Ye'd  not  make  me  happy !"    He  kissed 


320  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

her  eyes  and  her  cheeks  and  her  throat  passionately; 
kissed  her  until  he  heard  her  murmur,  "I  can  not  help 
it — "  kissed  her  into  submission.  He  lifted  his  head 
then  and  looked  at  her,  lying  still  in  his  hold,  at  her 
eyes  that  had  grown  wide  and  shining.  "Ye  sweetest 
thing  God  ever  gave  a  man — "  he  whispered.  And 
then,  "Do  ye  doubt  still  that  ye'll  make  me  happy?" 
he  asked.    "Tell  me  now  what  is  in  yer  heart  ?" 

"Just  love,"  she  said,  and  her  arms  drew  him  down 
again  against  her  breast,  against  her  hot  cheek,  and 
then  her  lips  found  his.  .  .  .  Not  even  the  heavy 
growl  of  the  clouds  stirred  those  moments  of  still 
ecstasy. 

When  at  last  MacAllister  raised  his  head,  it  was  to 
a  world  wrapped  in  gloom  and  fire  and  driven  rain. 
"Eh — "  he  said  with  the  long-drawn  breath  that 
brought  him  back  to  reason.  "It's  fairly  on  us — I'd 
clean  forgotten!" 

He  looked  down  at  Marie,  at  her  wide  brilliant 
eyes  that  still  saw  only  his  face.  "It's  no  use  to  run 
from  it.    Will  ye  be  frightened,  dear?" 

"Frightened!    With  you!" 

"Come  away  from  the  trees  a  bit,  then,  and  ye  shall 
have  my  coat.  We'll  just  sit  and  watch  it.  It'll  be  no 
more  than  a  warm  shower-bath  we'll  be  having  to- 
gether. I'll  take  ye  back  when  danger  from  the  light- 
ning's over." 

She  laughed  softly. 

But  when  he  had  found  a  place  for  them  and  she 
sat  in  the  circle  of  his  arm  while  the  rain  deluged 


"JUST    LOVE"  321 

them,  she  said  with  a  quiver  in  her  voice,  "I  came  to 
you  in  a  storm — do  you  remember  ?" 

"Am  I  like  to  forget  the  thing  that's  brought  me 
happiness!    .    .    .    But  why  do  ye  speak  so  sadly?" 

"Perhaps  because  I  am  too  happy." 

MacAllister  kissed  her  wet  hair.  "Maybe  that's  the 
way  it  is  with  a  woman,"  he  said  tenderly.  "I  know 
I'm  happier  than  in  all  my  life." 

And  presently,  when  her  warm  nearness  set  him  to 
thinking  of  the  future,  he  asked,  "Marie,  will  ye  marry 
me  very  soon?  .  .  .  Before  the  first  of  August, 
Marie?  .  .  .  I'll  take  ye  away  then  to  some  place 
that's  cool." 

Marie  was  silent  so  long  that  doubt  touched  him 
again.  But  when  she  spoke,  it  was  clearly.  "Yes. 
You  would  love  me  so  much  then  that  nothing  could 
take  me  away  from  you." 

"Do  I  have  to  kiss  ye  again  to  assure  ye  of  that?" 
MacAllister  asked. 

When  she  lifted  her  face  to  his,  it  was  not  only  the 
wet  of  the  rain  he  kissed;  but  he  did  not  know  that. 


XLVII 

THE  TRUTH  LAY  BETWEEN  THEM 

J'TT  was  late  when  Mendall  came  back  through  the 
X  grove  to  his  house.  The  spongy  ground  was  lit- 
tered with  leaves  and  twigs.  The  storm  had  long  since 
growled  away  to  the  south,  sweeping  the  sky  free  of 
clouds  as  it  went,  leaving  behind  a  drenched  world 
dimly  lighted  by  a  lopsided  moon. 

Mendall  was  conscious  that  he  had  walked  steadily 
through  the  rain  and  wind,  the  lightning  and  the  thun- 
der until  it  was  all  over.  Then  he  had  circled  about 
over  the  hills,  brought  back  more  by  instinct  than  be- 
cause of  purpose.  It  had  grown  cool,  and  the  sticki- 
ness of  his  wet  clothes  annoyed  him. 

The  front  door  was  ajar,  and  when  he  went  into 
the  hall  he  saw  that  the  studio  door  was  open  and  the 
room  lighted.    He  came  on  in,  blinking  at  the  light. 

The  room  was  as  he  had  left  it,  except  that  the  torn 
painting  stood  against  the  easel,  and  near  the  couch, 
sitting  in  her  usual  low  chair,  was  Margaret.  Her 
face  looked  to  him  a  white  blot. 

Hours  of  emotion  had  left  Mendall  with  that  curi- 
ous feeling  that  he  walked  in  an  exaggerated  space  in 
which  every  object  seems  distant  and  small,  and  even 

322 


THE   TRUTH    LAY    BETWEEN    THEM    323 

one's  own  body  lacks  substance.  The  sight  of  his 
wife,  of  the  painting  smoothed  into  a  semblance  of 
life,  the  customary  atmosphere  of  his  studio,  did  not 
shock  him  into  a  sense  of  reality.  He  was  too  utterly 
spent,  and  yet  tense.  His  coat  hung  upon  him,  he  was 
splashed  to  the  knees  with  mud,  chalk  white,  and  his 
hair  matted  low  on  his  forehead ;  he  looked  like  a  drug 
fiend  after  a  long  debauch — except  that  he  was  not 
shaking  or  unsteady  on  his  feet. 

He  was  conscious  that  Margaret  rose,  and  that  she 
spoke,  though  her  voice  seemed  to  come  from  a  dis- 
tance and  curiously  without  modulation:  "You  are 
wet  through — Carl." 

And  with  ruin  about  him,  his  answer  was  as  prosaic. 
"I  was  caught  in  the  storm." 

"You  must  put  on  dry  things." 

She  went  into  their  bedroom  and  brought  him  his 
dressing-gown  and  a  towel,  then  left  the  room.  Men- 
dall  looked  at  the  painting  and  wondered  in  a  vague 
way  if  she  meant  to  remain  away.  He  sat  down  on 
the  couch  and  began  to  unlace  his  shoes.  It  was  like 
her  to  attend  to  these  little  things.  Even  if  there  were 
a  death  in  the  house,  she  would  be  methodical;  that 
was  her  nature. 

When  she  returned  it  was  to  bring  him  a  cup  of  tea 
and  some  sandwiches.  He  could  not  eat,  but  he  drank 
the  tea  while  she  took  away  his  wet  clothes.  .  .  . 
Objects  lost  their  vagueness  after  that,  the  room  its 
look  of  immensity. 

She  came  back  presently,  and  he  noticed  then  how 


324  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

deadly  pale  she  was.  She  sat  down  again  in  her  little 
chair,  with  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  looked  at 
him.  Mendall  knew  what  was  coming ;  it  looked  at  him 
out  of  her  dark-circled  eyes,  but  he  did  not  brace  him- 
self against  it,  for  he  knew  there  could  be  only  truth 
between  them  now.  When  her  question  came,  it  was 
quite  evenly  and  steadily. 

She  pointed  to  the  painting.  "Carl,  do  you  love 
Marie  ?" 

"Yes/'  he  said. 

She  shrank,  and  her  voice  rose  a  little.  "You  have 
deceived  me  then — right  along — you  two.  You  painted 
her  secretly." 

"I  was  mad  to  paint  her — any  artist  would  be. 
Would  you  have  let  me  do  it,  if  you  had  known?" 

"No,  I  would  not." 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't.    That  is  why  I  did  as  I  did." 

"Marie  loves  you  then?" 

"No.  She  loves  MacAllister.  He  is  not  her  father; 
she  told  me  so  this  afternoon.  Her  father  and  Mac- 
Allister were  cousins." 

Mrs.  Mendall's  eyes  widened.  "Will  you,  in  jus- 
tice to  me,  tell  me  how  all  this  has  come  about,  then? 
What  is  there  between  you  and  Marie  ?  That  is  a  bad 
woman  you  have  painted." 

Mendall  tried  to  be  succinct.  "The  cause  of  it  all 
goes  back  beyond  Marie — to  my  longing  to  be  free 
from  a  life  that  ties  my  hands  so  I  can't  work.  The 
thing  I  want  most  on  earth  is  to  paint.  I've  simply 
been   hungry   and   thirsty  for  freedom.     The  three 


THE   TRUTH    LAY    BETWEEN    THEM     325 

women  I've  played  with  since  we  married  made  me 
forget  a  little  that  I  was  slowly  atrophying — that  was 
all.  With  Marie  it's  been  different.  .  .  .  She  satis- 
fies me — I  don't  know  how  else  to  express  it.  .  .  . 
I  don't  think  of  her  as  I  do  of  you;  I  don't  respect 
her  as  I  do  you.  I  don't  love  her  in  the  same  way  I 
love  you.  She's  simply  taken  possession  of  me  as — 
color  does.  Color  thrills  me — I  can't  help  it.  .  .  . 
I've  never  wanted  to  be  unfaithful  to  you;  I've  never 
wanted  to  hurt  you,  and  if  I  could  lie  to  you  now  and 
have  it  hurt  you  less  than  telling  you  the  truth,  I'd 
lie — from  start  to  finish.  .  .  .  It's  just  that  you  are 
a  little  like  that  school  over  there  in  Laclasse,  a  thing 
that's  a  deal  more  worthy  than  I  ever  thought  of  be- 
ing: just  steadiness,  faithfulness,  goodness.  A  mother 
as  well  as  a  wife.  I've  got  only  the  instability  of  the 
wanderer  in  me.  I  don't  deserve  anything  better  than 
an  inspiring  mistress,  with  a  face  and  body  that  can 
be  used  as  a  model.  .  .  .  But  when  I  say  that  I 
don't  mean  that  Marie  has  played  any  such  part.  She 
hasn't.  I  would  tell  you  if  she  had.  She  has  never 
allowed  a  single  liberty.  She  has  never  shown  me  a 
sign  of  affection.  She  has  always  been  loyal  to  Mac- 
Allister.  Until  this  afternoon,  when  she  came  to  de- 
stroy that  painting  because  she  said  it  slandered  her, 
there's  never  been  a  word  between  us  that  you  might 
not  have  heard.  She  told  me  this  afternoon  that  she 
let  me  paint  her  partly  because  she  saw  I  was  starving 
for  what  she  could  easily  give,  but  more  because  in 
the  beginning  I  thought  her  a  Delilah.    She  meant  to 


326  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

cure  me  of  my  opinion.  I  still  think  she  could  be  just 
that — if  she  chose.  I  believe  it's  in  her  blood.  But  I 
don't  think  she  is  that,  or  has  been.  .  .  .  You  have 
the  truth  now,  Margaret — all  of  it." 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  sat  quite  still  through  it,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him,  her  face  falling  into  lines  that  sharpened 
her  features  until  they  looked  pinched  and  aged. 
When  he  had  finished,  she  still  sat  carven  and  motion- 
less. When  she  moved  it  was  to  bend  forward  a  little, 
as  if  she  wanted  to  see  her  husband  more  clearly. 

She  stretched  an  uncertain  hand  and  touched  his 
knee.  "No — it's  not  all  the  truth — "  she  said  slowly. 
"There's  a  reason  why  I  must  have  it  all.  Carl — if 
you  were  free  to  go  out — away  from  here — and  just 
paint,  and  you  had  the  choice  of  Marie  or  myself — for 
your  companion — which  of  us  would  you  want  to  take 
with  you?" 

He  was  dumb. 

"You  must  tell  me !"  she  said  with  sudden  passion. 
"Don't  deceive  me  at  the  very  end !" 

Mendall  looked  away  from  her,  down  at  the  floor. 
"I  can't  help  being — as  I  am — "  he  said,  his  voice 
breaking. 

She  drew  back  and  put  her  hand  to  her  side,  as  if 
suddenly  stabbed  by  pain.  "What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  said 
in  a  whisper.  "It's  not  just  of  myself  I  have  to  think 
now."  She  got  up  and  went  a  little  aimlessly  toward 
the  open  door  of  their  room.  "I  must — think  it  out — " 
she  said  to  herself. 

Mendall  jerked  himself  up  and  followed  her.  "Don't 


THE   TRUTH    LAY    BETWEEN    THEM     327 

go  in  there  and  shut  yourself  up  to  agonize  over  im- 
possibilities!" he  exclaimed  passionately.  "Let  us  put 
it  aside  and  go  on — as  others  do.  I'll  forget  in  time. 
I'll  forget  my  painting.  I'll  give  myself  to  teaching 
— I'll  do  anything  you  want  me  to — only,  now  the 
truth's  out,  for  God's  sake  don't  agonize  over  it !" 

He  reached  her  at  their  door,  and  she  turned,  her 
hand  still  held  to  her  side,  a  small  erect  figure,  with 
brows  knit  over  clouded  eyes.  "I  don't  want  to  agon- 
ize. I  said  to  myself  while  I  waited  here  for  you  to 
come — I  kept  saying  to  myself — that  I  must  be  calm. 
I  don't  want  to  do  anything  that  will  hurt  me,  Carl. 
I  want  just  to  think — what  is  best.  .  .  .  You  have 
the  couch — I  don't  want  you  to  come  in.  I  want  to  be 
by  myself  to-night."  There  was  infinite  patience  and 
self-restraint  in  her  manner. 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  want,"  Mendall  repeated  help- 
lessly. 

"Then  let  me  be  by  myself." 

She  went  in  and  closed  the  door  softly. 


XLVIII 


THE  BATTLE 


MacALLISTER  did  no  work  on  the  morning 
after  the  storm.  He  went  down  to  his  office, 
looked  over  his  mail  and  set  certain  tasks  for  his  sten- 
ographer simply  because  he  was  waiting  until  he  could 
ride  out  to  Marie.  He  was  eager  for  her;  for  more 
of  her  grave  half -frightened  happiness.  He  wanted 
to  see  her  eyes  by  daylight ;  be  assured  again  and  again 
that  she  was  all  his. 

He  had  not  slept.  He  was  as  tense  and  as  eager  as 
he  had  ever  been  in  his  youth;  a  little  bewildered  as 
yet  by  the  wonder  of  it  all,  and  reverential  of  Marie's 
youth.  He  had  spent  the  night  in  planning  such  a 
holiday  as  he  had  never  had.  Marie  knew  nothing  of 
America ;  he  would  show  her  his  country — from  Can- 
ada to  the  Gulf;  from  the  Pacific  to  the  Atlantic.  He 
would  drop  business  for  a  year.  They  two  would  fare 
forth.  .  .  .  And  back  of  it  all  was  the  old  vision 
— his  wife  with  their  child  in  her  arms.  .  .  .  When 
she  tired  of  journeying,  he  would  bring  her  back  to 
Laclasse.    His  child  must  be  a  Nebraskan. 

As  he  sat  in  his  office,  making  a  list  of  the  many 
328 


THE    BATTLE  329 

things  that  must  be  attended  to  during  the  next  three 
weeks,  MacAllister' s  thoughts  still  circled  about  his 
vision.  In  three  weeks'  time  they  would  be  married; 
Marie  had  given  him  that  promise. 

MacAllister  was  alone  with  his  thoughts,  for  he 
had  sent  his  stenographer  down  to  the  bank,  to 
Bagsby,  with  some  business  papers.  He  did  not  want 
to  see  Bagsby;  he  did  not  want  to  see  any  one  while 
the  first  flush  of  happiness  was  on  him.  He  would 
be  endlessly  questioned  about  Mortola's  arrest;  pes- 
tered with  talk  about  the  plant.  On  this  day,  of  all 
others,  he  did  not  want  such  talk.  When  his  stenog- 
rapher came  back,  he  would  be  off — before  his  office 
was  invaded. 

When  the  door  of  the  outer  room  opened,  MacAllis- 
ter got  up  and  took  his  hat.  If  he  had  not  been  so 
absorbed,  he  would  have  known  before  he  came  to  the 
door  of  his  room  that  the  heavy  step  in  the  outer 
office  was  not  that  of  his  stenographer.  It  was  An- 
drew Kraup  who  loomed  on  his  threshold,  keen-eyed 
and  florid,  his  bulk  exaggerated  by  the  tan  linen  suit 
which  was  always  his  attire  in  hot  weather. 

MacAUister's  brows  lifted  at  sight  of  him.  It  was 
several  years  since  Kraup  had  been  in  his  office,  or  he 
in  Kraup's.  They  were  forced  to  transact  business 
together  occasionally ;  they  saw  each  other  frequently, 
and,  even  since  the  destruction  of  the  plant,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  avoiding  a  clash.  But  a  voluntary  visit  of 
this  sort  was  a  surprise. 

MacAllister  knew  that  the  morning  papers  had  a 


330  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

full  account  of  the  Italian's  arrest,  and  of  his  sus- 
pected part  in  the  destruction  of  MacAllister's  plant. 
Even  the  Laclasse  papers  had  hinted  that  one  or  two 
men  of  prominence  with  strongly  pro-German  sym- 
pathies might  be  implicated.  The  German  paper  of 
the  town  had  had  a  biased  article  on  the  occurrence 
and  the  other  papers  their  expressions  of  antagonism 
— the  usual  controversy  well  tinctured  with  sensa- 
tionalism. There  were  many  who  had  looked  askance 
at  Andrew  Kraup  ever  since  the  destruction  of  the 
plant.  It  had  been  made  unpleasant  for  him  at  the 
Laclasse  Club,  and  elsewhere. 

MacAllister  looked  him  up  and  down.  "Are  ye 
wanting  something  of  me,  Mr.  Kraup?"  he  inquired 
dryly. 

"If  you  haf  a  few  moments  to  spare,"  Kraup  an- 
swered deliberately. 

"Not  unless  yer  errand's  important.  I've  an  en- 
gagement." 

"I  haf  no  doubt  it  will  be  important  to  you,"  Kraup 
maintained  coolly.  "If  I  were  in  your  place  it  would 
be  important  to  me." 

"I'm  obliged  to  ye  for  seeking  me,  then,  Mr.  Kraup, 
and  I'll  be  equally  obliged  if  ye'll  be  brief."  The  thor- 
oughgoing hatred  each  bore  the  other  flared  in  their 
eyes,  if  not  in  their  speech,  smilingly  in  Kraup's  eyes, 
hotly  in  MacAllister's. 

MacAllister  led  the  way  back  into  his  room,  and  mo- 
tioned to  a  chair,  but  his  visitor  declined  to  be  seated. 
They  faced  each  other. 


THE   BATTLE  331 

"Thank  you,  but  it  is  not  necessary.  I  haf  come 
simply  to  deliver  to  you  some  papers  which  will  inter- 
est you.  I  haf,  as  you  know,  connections  in  Europe. 
They  haf  sent  me  certain  data  which  really  belongs  to 
you,"  and  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  bulky  envelope 
and  laid  it  on  the  desk. 

MacAllister  glanced  at  the  envelope,  which  was 
without  direction  of  any  kind,  and  then  at  Kraup,  at 
the  fighting  light  in  his  eyes  which  his  coolness  could 
not  cover. 

MacAllister  frequently  did  unexpected  things.  He 
pointed  to  the  envelope:  "Take  it,  and  go  about  yer 
business." 

Kraup  hesitated  under  the  unexpected.  Then  he 
shrugged.  "But  those  papers  do  not  concern  me — 
except  as  they  will  concern  all  Laclasse." 

"I  told  ye  to  take  them  and  be  gone!"  MacAllister 
repeated,  his  voice  rising. 

"And  I  decline  to  take  them!"  Kraup  said,  losing 
hold  on  his  coolness.  "You  will  do  well  to  read  them. 
If  you  wish  to  know  what  I  gathered  from  them — I 
think  you  have  had  the  material  that  makes  a  spy 
much  closer  to  you  than  was  that  contemptible  Italian 
whom  you  think  did  you.  Better  for  you  to  learn 
from  that  packet,  than  from  the  daily  papers,  that  you 
have  been  taken  in  by  an  adventuress." 

MacAllister  studied  him  for  a  moment,  intently. 
Then,  turning  about,  he  went  through  the  outer  office 
and  locked  the  door.  Coming  back,  he  locked  the  door 
to  his  room,  and,  with  a  stride,  faced  Kraup. 


332  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

"Now  explain  yerself,  ye  spy  and  hatcher  of  plots! 
Because  a  woman's  good  brain  has  trapped  ye,  ye  and 
yer  tribe  would  be  hatching  a  plot  against  her  now, 
would  ye !" 

Andrew  Kraup  was  quite  as  good  a  fighter  as  Alex- 
ander MacAllister.  He  did  not  quail  an  iota  under 
MacAllister's  fiery  insult.  "I  am  neither  a  spy  nor  a 
hatcher  of  plots,  Mr.  MacAllister!  I  am  just  so  good 
and  loyal  an  American  citizen  as  yourself.  ...  I 
said  you  had  been  taken  in  by  an  adventuress,  and  I 
repeat  it!  A  woman  who  has  no  right  to  the  name 
she  goes  by!" 

"Give  a  name  to  yer  lie!"  MacAllister  said,  dead 
white. 

"Marie  Ogilvie — so  called — " 

MacAllister  was  on  him  with  a  leap.  Kraup  was 
on  his  guard,  but  his  upflung  arm  only  deflected  Mac- 
Allister's blow  from  his  jaw  to  his  cheek.  MacAllis- 
ter's fist  laid  bare  his  cheek-bone,  and,  in  spite  of  his 
bulk,  sent  him  reeling. 

He  came  back  at  MacAllister  like  any  fighting  mas- 
tiff, and  grappled  with  him.  They  swayed  and  twisted, 
Kraup's  bulk  opposed  to  MacAllister's  hard  muscle, 
his  thick  fingers  gripping  MacAllister's  taut  throat, 
MacAllister's  iron  hand  closing  in  the  fat  beneath 
Kraup's  chin. 

Kraup  had  been  quite  as  powerful  a  man  as  Mac- 
Allister, but  the  accumulated  flesh  of  middle  age  ham- 
pered him.  The  advantage  was  with  MacAllister. 
He  bore  his  adversary  back,  smothered  him  into  semi- 


THE   BATTLE  333 

consciousness,  and,  with  a  final  twist,  brought  his  body 
to  the  floor  with  a  thud  that  shook  the  desk.  .  .  . 
He  stood  over  him  then,  panting  and  purple,  his  hands 
still  clenched,  watching  Kraup  breathe  his  way  back 
to  consciousness. 

"Have — ye — had — enough — ?"  he  demanded  when 
he  knew  that  Kraup  could  hear. 

The  motion  Kraup  made  seemed  to  satisfy  him.  He 
knelt  down  beside  him.  "Since  ye  are  what  ye  are, 
ye'll  just  take  the  treatment  that's  given  yer  kind,"  he 
said,  and  rapidly  searched  Kraup' s  pockets.  From  an 
inner  breast  pocket  he  drew  several  letters  which  he 
took  to  the  desk  and  examined. 

But,  first,  MacAllister  went  to  the  alcove  and  soaked 
a  towel  which  he  wrapped  about  his  own  aching 
throat.  He  dipped  another  in  the  basin  and  flung  it 
down  beside  Kraup,  who  was  struggling  to  sit  up. 
"Bring  yerself  to,"  he  said  roughly.  "Ye  fought 
well — I'll  say  that  for  ye."  And  going  back  to  the  desk 
he  began  to  examine  the  letters.  Two  of  them  were 
in  German;  he  could  not  read  them.  The  other  two 
were  evidently  part  of  a  correspondence  with  German 
relief  societies. 

Meantime,  Kraup  had  risen  and  gone  shakily  to  the 
set-basin.  He  bathed  his  face  and  hands  and  his 
throat,  deliberately  making  himself  as  presentable  as 
possible  and,  at  the  same  time,  collecting  his  strength. 
He  turned  then,  and  though  he  looked  ghastly,  chalk 
white,  marked  with  purple,  and  blood-stained  about  the 
collar,  there  was  a  purposeful  air  about  him. 


334  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

MacAlHster  had  finished  his  examination  of  the  let- 
ters. He  had  also  unlocked  the  doors  of  the  two 
rooms,  and  had  come  back  to  the  desk,  where  he  stood 
waiting,  his  fist  on  the  letters.  "I've  looked  at  these," 
he  said,  when  Kraup  turned.  "The  two  I  can  read  ye 
may  take  with  ye,  but  these  in  German,  I'll  keep.  If 
they're  of  no  interest,  they'll  be  returned  to  ye,  safe 
enough." 

"Keep  them — all — "  Kraup  said.  "You  will  see 
that  they  all  haf — to  do  with  money  sent  to  my  people 
— who  are  in  need."  ...  He  spoke  with  pauses,  and 
with  great  difficulty,  nevertheless  forcibly.  "Mr.  Mac- 
AlHster— I  haf  a  word  to  say  to  you :  I  do  not  blame 
you  that  you  haf  beaten  me  because  of  a  woman  whom 
apparently  you  lof  sufficiently  to  fight  for.  That  is 
natural.  .  .  .  But  there  is  one  respect  in  which  you 
do  me  an  injustice.  I — and  other  respectable  citizens 
of  America — like  myself — thousands  of  us — haf  been 
assured  that  we  were  an  honor  to  this  country.  We 
are  an  honor  to  this  country — we  haf  helped  to  build 
it  up.  It  is  our  country — just  as  it  is  yours.  .  .  . 
Then  there  comes  this  war — which  is  not  of  our  mak- 
ing, far  from  it,  Mr.  MacAlHster — and  we  haf  our 
sympathies  for  our  people  and  for  the  country  from 
which  we  came.  That  is  quite  natural.  I  myself  haf 
an  aged  mother  in  Germany,  whose  two  sons,  my 
brothers,  haf  been  killed  in  this  strife.  I  haf  many 
other  relations — all  of  whom  are  in  trouble.  My  busi- 
ness suffers  also.  So  it  is  with  many  like  me.  .  .  . 
Then  what  do  you  in  this  country  do?    There  never 


THE   BATTLE  335 

was  a  war  in  which  there  haf  not  been  spies  and  crimi- 
nal dealing  and  much  talk  and  much  sensation.  You 
lump  us  all  together.  Your  suspicions  are  for  us  all 
— good  citizens  and  bad.  It  is  enough  to  make  a  man 
bitter!  There  are  thousands,  like  myself,  who  do  not 
believe  in  butchery;  who  would  no  more  countenance 
espionage  and  lawlessness — who  would  no  more  haf 
to  do  with  the  destruction  of  property — like  your  plant 
— not  a  bit  more  than  you,  Mr.  MacAllister.  I  haf 
always  fought  you  openly,  Mr.  MacAllister — as  you 
haf  fought  me.  I  fought  the  building  of  your  plant 
openly,  but  I  had  no  part  whatever  in  its  destruction !" 

Though  husky,  to  the  point  of  whispering,  Kraup 
had  gathered  force  as  he  went  on,  and  now  he  was 
flushed  to  purple,  a  somewhat  lurid  spectacle  with  the 
blood  trickling  down  his  cheek  from  his  wound.  He 
brought  his  fist  down  on  the  desk.  "Mr.  MacAllister, 
I  speak  my  word  for  the  average,  good  German- 
American  citizen!  He  is  just  so  good  and  loyal  an 
American  citizen  as  you  are !  This  is  his  home.  His 
children  are  Americans,  and  their  children  after  them 
will  be  Americans!  .  .  .  I  am  no  'spy/  Mr.  Mac- 
Allister, and  I  did — not  destroy — your  plant — "  He 
stopped  from  sheer  inability  to  continue,  choked  into 
gasping  breath  by  the  increased  swelling  of  his  throat. 
He  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and  held  it  to  his  bleed- 
ing cheek. 

MacAllister  had  watched  him  throughout  from  be- 
neath lowered  brows.  Though  still  as  implacably  an- 
gry over  the  real  cause  of  their  battle,  it  was  in  him 


336  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

to  discriminate,  to  grant  that,  concerning  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  plant,  Kraup  had  spoken  the  truth.  Many 
times  in  his  business  career  MacAllister  had  taken  a 
man's  word  as  his  only  guarantee,  when  there  had 
been  this  same  ring  of  sincerity  as  assurance,  and  his 
confidence  had  not  been  misplaced.  There  was  sin- 
cerity in  every  word  this  man  had  spoken.  And,  for 
the  first  time,  MacAllister  saw  Kraup' s  position  and 
the  position  of  others  like  him  from  their  standpoint. 

"I  believe  ye,"  he  said  curtly.  "I'll  grant  ye  had  no 
part  in  the  blowing  up  of  my  plant,  and,  if  I'd  thought 
as  I  do  now,  I'd  not  have  gone  through  yer  pockets. 
Ye  may  take  yer  letters — I've  no  interest  in  them. 
.  .  .  But  this,"  and  MacAllister  transferred  his  fist 
to  the  envelope  Kraup  had  brought  him,  "on  this  score, 
I'll  fight  ye  to  the  ends  of  the  earth — and  beyond !" 

Kraup  had  recovered  enough  voice  to  speak.  "You 
may.  If  you  find  that  I  haf  brought  you  falsehoods, 
I  am  ready  to  stand  for  the  consequences.  /  haf  be- 
lief in  those  documents.  ...  I  brought  them  to 
you  for  two  reasons,  Mr.  MacAllister:  one,  because  I 
was  not  averse  to  hitting  you  on  a  soft  spot;  another, 
because  I  determined  that  you  should  not  drag  my 
good  name  into  any  proceedings  connected  with  the 
destruction  of  your  plant."  There  was  the  ring  of 
sincerity  in  this  statement  also. 

MacAllister  came  close  to  him,  his  face  white  again 
with  anger,  and  his  eyes  ablaze.  "And  I  know  it's  a 
lie  of  some  sort  ye've  brought  me,  though  ye  may  not 
think  it.    And  I  warn  ye!    If  ye  so  much  as  part  yer 


THE    BATTLE  337 

lips  in  disparagement  of  my  kinswoman,  I'll  kill  ye! 
.  .  .  I'm  a  man  of  my  word,  as  ye  know,  Andrew 
Kraup." 

Kraup  looked  him  steadily  in  tfie  eye.  "Yes — and 
I  think  as  I  did  when  I  came  in  here — that  it  will  be 
silence  for  silence,  Mr.  MacAllister.,,  And  turning 
about,  he  went  out  through  the  outer  office. 

MacAllister  stood  for  a  moment  with  hands 
clenched.  Then,  with  a  passionate  gesture,  he  thrust 
aside  the  letters  Kraup  had  left  behind  him,  and  tak- 
ing up  the  blank  envelope,  tore  it  open.  It  contained 
another  envelope  which  bore  a  superscription  that 
dyed  him  scarlet.  He  was  so  aflame  with  rage  that  the 
several  typewritten  sheets  which  he  unfolded,  a  copy 
evidently  of  a  lengthy  communication  annotated  with 
foreign  exactness,  shook  in  his  hands.  There  were 
also  several  photographs,  and  clippings  from  Paris 
papers. 

MacAllister  read  the  entire  contents  of  the  inner 
envelope,  then  sat  staring  at  its  superscription : 

CONCERNING 

MARIA  DE  LA  GUARDA 

ALIAS 

MARIE  OGILVIE 


XLIX 

A  SILENT  HOUSE 

IT  was  nearly  noon  when  MacAllister  stood  before 
the  Mendalls'  door. 

He  did  not  notice  Mrs.  Mendall's  pallor  and  heavy 
eyes  when  she  opened  to  him ;  or,  rather,  her  look  was 
so  a  part  of  his  own  tense  consciousness  of  tragedy 
that  it  made  no  impression  on  him.  "Will  ye  tell 
Marie  I  want  to  see  her?"  he  said,  and  passed  on  into 
the  bare  little  room  which  had  received  him  the  first 
time  he  had  crossed  the  Mendalls'  threshold.  As  he 
stood  waiting,  he  remembered  in  a  hot  aching  way  the 
errand  that  had  brought  him  on  that  first  day. 

And  his  bent  brows  and  hard-set  face  made  as  little 
impression  on  Mrs.  Mendall.  She  had  crept  about  a 
silent  house  that  morning.  Her  husband  was  up,  but 
his  studio  door  had  not  opened,  and  Marie  had  kept 
her  room,  as  had  been  usual  of  late. 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  too  despairingly  anxious  even  for 
jealousy  to  have  its  way  with  her.  The  travail  of  the 
night  had  brought  forth  no  decision,  except  that  they 
must,  as  Mendall  had  said,  put  the  thing  aside  and  go 
on;  it  was  more  necessary  than  ever  that  they  go  pa- 

338 


A    SILENT    HOUSE  339 

tiently  on  together.  Marie  would  go;  MacAllister 
would  take  her,  and  they  must  go  on  as  long  as  Men- 
dall  could  endure.  The  urge  to  paint  was  as  much  a 
part  of  him  as  the  breath  he  drew.  His  search  for 
inspiration  would  continue;  the  break  for  freedom 
would  come  sooner  or  later;  therein  lay  her  despair. 
But,  meantime,  they  must  go  on  together. 

Mrs.  Mendall  went  up  and  delivered  MacAllister's 
message  through  Marie's  closed  door,  and  came  down 
again,  hastily.  Marie's  soft  answer,  quickened  by  the 
lilt  of  happiness,  aroused  in  her  so  sudden  a  fury  that 
she  ran  from  herself — down  to  her  room.  She  could 
have  throttled  the  girl  with  her  bare  hands. 

She  walked  the  floor  with  hand  pressed  to  her  side, 
as  she  had  the  night  before,  when  she  had  told  her  hus- 
band that  she  wished  to  do  nothing  that  would  hurt 
herself. 

"You  must  be  calm !  You  must  be  calm !"  she  whis- 
pered. 

When  she  heard  Marie  come  down  and  go  into  the 
room  opposite,  Mrs.  Mendall  walked  faster — until 
raised  voices,  MacAllister's  and  Marie's,  came  dis- 
tinctly to  her. 

Then  she  opened  her  door  and  listened.  Mendall 
also  had  come  out  into  the  hall.  They  both  heard,  for 
the  door  into  the  reception  room  was  open  and  Marie's 
rapid  steady  speech  cut  into  the  silence  of  the  house. 
It  could  have  been  heard  even  behind  closed  doors. 


L 


THE  YELLOW  STREAK 

MARIE  had  come  down  to  MacAllister  with  the 
signs  of  a  night  of  emotion  upon  her,  cheeks 
pale,  eyes  shining,  lips  vivid  and  faintly  smiling.  She 
came  into  the  little  reception  room — and  stopped  dead, 
for  MacAllister  stood  beside  the  table  with  brows  bent 
on  her,  gray,  except  for  the  purple  marks  about  his 
chin  and  throat,  grim-lipped,  fiery-eyed,  terrible.  The 
old  sickening  rage  at  deceit  had  its  grip  on  him. 

Marie  had  halted  on  the  forward  step,  and  her  sud- 
den shrinking  was  like  the  withdrawal  from  a  blow. 
If  MacAllister  had  needed  confirmation  he  had  it  in 
the  instant  mask-like  rigidity  of  her  face. 

"So  it's  true,  then?"  MacAllister  said. 

"What  is  true?"  Marie  asked  mechanically. 

"That  ye've  deceived  me  from  the  first  moment  I 
saw  ye." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Marie  said  stiffly, 
"Yes." 

"And  why  should  ye  come,  passing  yerself  off  to  me 
as  my  kin;  smiling  in  my  face  and  taking  my  love? 
Bringing  on  me  all  over  again  what  I've  been  through 
once  before?    If  ye  were  after  my  money,  ye  took  a 

340 


THE   YELLOW    STREAK  341 

fool  way  to  reach  it.  Didn't  ye  know  ye'd  surely  be 
discovered?" 

She  answered  only  his  first  accusation.  "I  am  your 
kinswoman.     It  all  grew  out  of  that." 

"And  ye  expect  me  to  believe  that!"  MacAllister 
said  cuttingly.  "Will  ye  tell  me  also  that  ye're  not 
the  daughter  of  Dolores  de  la  Guarda,  who  was  mis- 
tress to  Francois  Valle,  the  painter?  That  ye  were 
not  educated  by  him?  That  ye  were  not  a  dancer  in 
public  places  in  Paris  when  the  war  broke?  That  ye 
did  not  lie  to  me  when  ye  told  me  ye  went  to  Mexico 
in  search  of  James  Ogilvie,  who  ye  made  out  to  me 
was  yer  father  ?  By  what  chance  ye  gained  possession 
of  the  letters  ye  showed  me,  I  can't  guess,  but  it's  sure 
ye  came  by  them  by  no  fair  means.  If  ye'll  lie,  ye'll 
steal — "  MacAllister  paused  in  an  attempt  to  control 
himself,  for  his  next  accusation  cut  to  the  quick  of  a 
prejudice  that  lay  in  the  very  marrow  of  him.  "Ye' re 
not  a  white  woman,  Maria  de  la  Guarda;  ye're  part 
Indian.  How  dared  ye  put  yerself  off  on  me  as 
my  kin?" 

"All  they  have  told  you  is  true,"  Marie  said  hag- 
gardly, "but  that  I  am  not  your  kinswoman — that  is 
not  true." 

"With  that  blood  in  ye !  Never!  .  .  .  I  thought, 
with  every  inch  of  the  way  I  traveled  out  here  to  ye, 
that  with  that  blood  in  ye  'twould  be  no  more  than 
nature  for  ye  to  have  been  just  such  as  yer  mother — 
just—" 

Marie  flared  into  sudden  life.     She  came  so  close 


342  THE   TIGER'S    COAT, 

to  him  that  he  looked  down  into  blazing  eyes.  "You 
shall  not  say  that  to  me !"  she  said  wildly.  "You  shall 
not!  I  have  never  been  that!  And  in  all  they  have 
told  you,  they  have  not  said  that!  .  .  .  You  may 
say  to  me  that  I  lie — or  that  I  have  stolen — or  that  I 
am  not  white.  You  may  throw  me  out  because  I  have 
deceived  you  in  other  ways;  because  in  the  beginning 
I  meant  to  use  you.  You  may  believe  all  the  wrong 
things  I  have  done  that  are  true,  but  you  shall  not 
believe  that  thing  which  is  not  true !"  The  tears  welled 
suddenly  in  her  eyes,  the  taut  muscles  in  her  face  be- 
ginning to  quiver.  "There  are  two  things  you  must 
believe :  one,  that  I  love  you — utterly ;  and  the  other, 
that  I  have  never  in  any  way  at  all  belonged  to  any 
other  man  than  you — only  you." 

MacAllister  looked  away  from  her  tears,  his  face 
hard  set. 

But  her  sudden  passion  had  tapped  the  fountain  of 
speech.  She  brushed  away  her  tears  and  went  on  rap- 
idly: "I  know  how  they  have  told  you  the  few  facts 
they  have  discovered.  They  have  told  them  coldly  and 
without  explanation.  But  I  will  tell  you  the  other 
things  which  are  quite  as  true.  .  .  .  It  is  true  that 
I  am  partly  Indian.  My  grandmother  was  a  Tehuana 
of  pure  blood.  She  was  the  mistress  of  Gonzalo  de  la 
Guarda,  a  Spaniard  of  importance  in  the  Isthmus. 
She  kept  his  house;  that  is  frequent  in  the  Isthmus. 
He  was  pure  Spanish;  he  came  from  Spain;  there  is 
still  the  de  la  Guarda  family  in  Aragon.  He  was  man- 
ager of  plantations  in  the  Isthmus. 


THE    YELLOW    STREAK  343 

"My  mother  was  their  daughter.  She  was  beauti- 
ful, a  golden  woman;  the  half-breed  Tehuana  is  fre- 
quently beautiful.  And  she  was  not  ignorant.  Her 
father  had  cared  enough  to  educate  her.  But,  when 
the  planter  goes  back  to  his  people  and  forgets,  there 
are  only  two  possibilities  for  such  as  my  mother :  she 
must  go  into  the  hut  of  some  Indian,  or  become  what 
my  mother  was — the  woman  of  your  cousin,  James 
Ogilvie.  The  Tehuana  feels  herself  fortunate  to  have 
escaped  the  hut  of  the  Indian.  There  is  no  sin  in  it, 
to  her  mind,  so  long  as  she  is  faithful.  And  my  mother 
was  beautiful;  she  had  charm.  She  kept  her  place  for 
seven  years.  I  am  not  eighteen,  Monsieur.  I  am 
twenty-three.  How  often  I  have  longed  to  tell  you 
so  when  you  have  thought  me  too  young !" 

Marie  drew  a  quick  breath  and  went  on.  "You  know 
that  in  the  beginning  your  cousin  was  manager  over 
a  plantation  in  the  Isthmus,  and  that  he  went  to  Paris 
afterward.  He  took  my  mother  and  me  with  him. 
.  .  .  It  was  then  the  usual  thing;  he  wished  to  marry 
— a  Frenchwoman. "  Her  voice  rose  a  little.  "He  left 
my  mother,  Monsieur !  And  me !  He  took  his  bride 
to  Mexico  and  left  us!  .  .  .  He  left  my  mother 
with  very  little,  Monsieur,  and  with  me,  a  little  child 
depending  on  her.  She  had  met  Francois  Valle.  He 
loved  her,  and  she  became  his.  I  do  not  censure  my 
mother.  She  was  the  result  of  her  inheritance  and 
her  rearing.  I  know  that  she  was  true  to  your  cousin 
as  any  good  wife,  and  that  she  also  was  faithful  to 
Francois  Valle. 


344  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

"He  was  a  strange  brilliant  man.  He  was  purely 
the  artist.  He  was  very  kind  to  my  mother.  He  sent 
me  to  a  convent  school,  and  until  I  was  sixteen  I  was 
with  the  good  nuns.  Afterward  I  was  with  my  mother 
and  Francois  Vall'e.  He  traveled  with  us ;  into  Spain, 
into  Italy,  all  over  Europe.  But  always  he  wished  not 
to  make  friends  with  people.  We  knew  few  people. 
We  lived  mostly  in  Rome.  He  died  in  Rome,  both  he 
and  my  mother,  within  a  year. 

"Then  I  was  quite  alone,  and  without  anything. 
But  I  had  been  taught  to  dance ;  I  had  talent  for  it.  I 
came  to  Paris.  I  danced  first  in  a  chorus,  then  for  a 
few  months  at  cafe  chantants.  They  called  me,  'La  de 
la  Guarda.'  ...  I  learned  much  in  those  three 
years,  Monsieur.  They  were  hard  years.  I  had  to 
fight  continually  to  keep  my  self-respect.  I  became 
bitter,  and  suspicious  of  all  who  approached  me.  I 
need  not  have  lived  alone  and  remained  just  a  poorly 
paid  dancer.  A  little  'protection'  would  have  given 
me  my  chance.  But  back  from  the  time  when  I  knelt 
with  the  nuns,  I  had  said,  T  will  never  be  as  my 
mother,'  and  through  the  years  I  had  said  the  same 
thing.    The  hatred  of  it  was  in  every  atom  of  me. 

"Then  there  came  an  opportunity.  A  motion  pic- 
ture company  employed  me.  They  sent  me  to  Bel- 
gium, to  their  company  of  players.  Germany  had 
declared  war,  but  who  thought  it  would  become  so  ter- 
rible? Our  band  of  players  scattered  to  seek  shelter 
where  they  could. 


THE   YELLOW    STREAK  345 

"You  know  what  followed.  I  marched  with  pen- 
niless people  who  fled  from  their  homes.  We  were 
hungry  and  terrified.  We  came  into  Antwerp.  But 
there  was  nothing  I  could  do  there  to  earn  my  bread. 
I  was  starving.  I  decided  I  would  go  to  Mexico — to 
my  father.  He  must  give  me  help.  I  begged  a  relief 
society  to  send  me.  There  was  a  boat  to  Vera  Cruz, 
and  in  their  great  kindness  I  was  given  a  place  in  its 
steerage. 

"Mon  Dieu,  that  voyage!  Some  I  have  told  you, 
and  some  I  have  not.  There  were  refugees  who  had 
waited  for  weeks  for  that  boat.  We  were  herded  in 
as  one  would  not  herd  cattle,  and  among  my  bed- 
fellows was  a  fair-haired  girl  with  eyes  yellow  like 
mine.  We  asked  each  other  our  names,  and  she  said, 
'I  am  Marie  Ogilvie,  and  I  go  to  my  father,  James 
Ogilvie.' 

"And  I  said,  T  am  Maria  de  la  Guarda,  and  I  go  to 
those  who  I  hope  will  help  me/  I  thought  I  would 
not  tell  her  till  I  had  made  her  love  me,  but  I  felt  a 
great  gladness.  She  was  gentle  and  good;  she  would 
love  me. 

"She  could  not  tell  much,  or  question  at  all,  for  she 
was  dazed  still  with  anxiety,  and  ill.  But  so  much  she 
told  me:  Her  mother  had  died  many  years  before, 
and  since  a  little  girl  she  had  been  kept  at  convent 
schools  in  Belgium  by  her  father.  Hers  was  the  story 
of  the  refugee:  she  had  fled  with  others;  she  had 
written  to  her  father  and  received  no  answer;  she  had 


346  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

no  money  but  what  hung  in  a  little  bag  about  her  neck ; 
she  had  been  shipped  as  soon  as  there  was  a  boat  to 
take  her. 

"She  was  not  strong.  She  was  fearfully  ill  from  the 
sea,  and  helpless.  I  was  stronger ;  I  could  help  her.  I 
waited  on  her,  and  she  clung  to  me.  It  was  fearful 
all  the  way;  when  we  reached  Vera  Cruz  she  could 
scarcely  walk. 

"We  had  only  come  from  one  war  to  another.  Vera 
Cruz  was  full  of  refugees  from  the  North.  All  was 
confusion  in  that  place  of  heat.  No  one  asked  from 
where  you  came.  But  she  must  have  some  place  to 
stay  till  I  could  send  to  her  father.  I  found  a  room,  a 
poor  place. 

"I  went  then  to  the  office  of  a  mining  company 
where  she  told  me  her  father  would  be  known.  They 
looked  strangely  at  me  when  I  asked  how  James  Ogil- 
vie  could  be  reached.  'The  mines  are  in  the  hands  of 
the  rebels,'  they  told  me.  And  then,  'James  Ogilvie  is 
dead — he  was  shot  in  a  skirmish  two  months  ago.' 

"I  went  out  without  a  word,  for  I  felt  as  ill  as  if  I 
would  die.  I  went  back  to  her,  but  so  soon  as  I  saw 
her,  I  knew  I  must  not  tell  her ;  it  would  kill  her ;  she 
had  grown  so  very  ill.  The  fever  was  already  upon 
her.  I  brought  then  a  doctor,  and  he  said,  'It  is  typhus. 
You  will  have  it  too.' 

"I  told  her  then  who  I  was,  but  she  could  not  under- 
stand; she  was  in  unconsciousness  most  of  the  time.  I 
took  her  little  bag  of  money  and  hung  it  about  my 
neck,  and  her  few  little  things  I  tied  up  closely  with 
mine.    I  was  afraid  they  would  steal  from  us. 


THE   YELLOW    STREAK  347 

"They  took  us  to  a  hut  apart  from  people,  and  it 
was  only  a  few  days  with  her.  The  fever  was  on  me 
when  she  died.  They  said  I  raved  wildly.  That  I 
said,  over  and  over  again,  'I  am  James  Ogilvie's 
daughter;  I  am  James  Ogilvie's  daughter,'  and  again 
and  again,  'Bury  Maria  de  la  Guarda  deep.'  When  I 
came  back  to  my  senses  they  told  me,  'Maria  de  la 
Guarda  is  dead.' 

"Monsieur,  it  was  then  I  lied  for  the  first  time.  I 
lied  by  saying  nothing.  I  lay  and  thought,  and  it  came 
to  me  then  that  I  would  be  Marie  Ogilvie!  If  I  did 
not  explain,  no  one  would  know.  Marie  Ogilvie  had 
not  been  in  Mexico  since  a  child.  And  after  the  flames 
had  swept  Europe,  who  would  remember  either  Marie 
Ogilvie  or  Maria  de  la  Guarda?  She  was  my  sister;  I 
would  take  her  little  money  and  go  away  quickly  to 
America  and  make  a  new  life.  I  would  be  legitimate, 
all  white.    No  one  would  guess  I  was  anything  else. 

"As  soon  as  they  would  let  me  go,  I  came  by  boat 
to  New  York.  Some  poor  French  people  on  the  boat 
told  me  of  a  French  hotel  by  the  wharves.  It  took 
nearly  all  my  money.  I  was  ill ;  I  could  not  find  work ; 
I  was  in  despair. 

"It  was  not  till  then  I  planned  to  come  to  you.  I 
discovered  about  you  from  one  of  my  father's  letters 
to  my  sister,  which  I  had  put  with  my  things.  It  was 
the  letter  I  presented  to  you.  In  it  he  said:  'If  any- 
thing should  happen  to  me,  go  to  Alexander  Mac- 
Allister/  and  he  told  how  to  reach  you.  It  came  to 
me  as  a  great  inspiration.  I  would  make  myself  as 
young  as  possible,  and  come  to  you.    And,  Monsieur, 


348  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

there  was  in  me  the  bitter  feeling  that  your  family 
owed  me  something.  It  made  it  seem  less  wrong  to 
deceive.    I  took  a  certain  satisfaction  in  deceiving. 

"I  stole  away  from  the  hotel  before  daylight,  for  I 
owed  for  my  room.  If  I  paid,  I  had  not  enough 
money  to  come  to  you.  There  was  a  starved  cat,  a 
yellow  thing,  came  to  me  in  the  night,  while  I  waited 
to  come  to  you.  I  shall  never  forget  her.  She  was 
like  me,  starving  and  without  a  friend.  I  dared  not 
touch  her  or  I  should  weep  aloud.  ...  I  did  actu- 
ally starve  in  that  journey.  I  had  hardly  a  penny  left 
after  my  ticket.  I  walked  to  you  through  Laclasse, 
through  the  rain.  When  I  reached  your  door  I  had 
not  one  penny.  I  was  quite  desperate.  I  was  fighting 
for  my  life."  Marie  had  grown  hoarse  from  steady 
speaking,  but  her  voice  was  touched  again  by  passion 
when  she  asked:  "Do  you  think  for  one  moment, 
Monsieur,  that  I  would  have  endured  to  that  point  if 
it  were  possible  for  me  to  be — as  my  mother  ?  Ah,  no !" 

Then  she  dropped  on  the  instant  to  a  softness  that 
was  tender  and  pleading.  "You  were  really  like  a 
father  to  me,  Monsieur,  and  for  a  little  time  I  took 
advantage,  for  I  was  still  bitter.  I  thought:  'I  will 
gain  all  I  can.'  But  very  soon  I  was  ashamed  and  so 
grateful  that  I  could  not  be  bitter.  Then  I  thought: 
'As  soon  as  I  am  well,  I  will  go  away,  and  from  a  dis- 
tance I  will  tell  him  who  I  really  am/  .  .  .  But 
soon,  very  soon,  I  forgot  it  all  in  loving  you — as  a 
woman  loves  a  man — utterly.  And  I  knew  that  you 
loved  me — as  a  man  loves  a  woman. 


"It's  asking  the  impossible  of  me' 


THE    YELLOW    STREAK  349 

"Then  I  was  in  misery.  One  day  I  would  say,  'I 
will  tell  him,'  and  the  next,  no  power  could  have  forced 
me  to  tell.  If  I  told  you  you  would  not  love  me.  I 
was  both  happy  and  in  agony.  I  feared  terribly  that 
some  one  would  discover  and  tell  you.  I  was  afraid 
of  the  German  spies  I  was  certain  were  about  you.  If 
I  angered  them  they  might  search  out  the  truth.  But 
I  loved  you  so  much  that  I  warned  you  of  danger. 
And  they  have  revenged  themselves — just  as  I  feared. 
When  Townley  fled,  he  left  for  me  at  the  dance  the 
words,  'La  de  la  Guarda.'  They  knew.  .  .  .  While 
you  were  away  I  was  in  agony.  I  thought  they  had 
told  you.  When  you  came  back  to  me,  up  the  hillside, 
it  was  like  hell  turned  into  heaven.  ...  I  nearly 
told  you  last  night.  I  brought  my  courage  far  enough 
to  ask  to  be  sent  away.  .  .  .  But  then  you  kissed 
me.  ...  I  would  have  told  you  before  I  mar- 
ried you  .  .  .  my  love  would  have  made  me — 
just  as  it  made  me  warn  you  of  danger — " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  MacAllister  had  turned 
his  averted  face  and  looked  at  her  as  she  had  gone  on. 
He  looked  down  when  she  had  finished.  His  face  had 
not  changed — it  was  still  set  and  hard. 

Finally  she  asked,  scarcely  above  a  whisper,  "Mon- 
sieur— you  do  believe  now  that  I  have  told  the  truth 
— do  you  not  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  believe  ye  have  told  the  truth — 
at  last." 

"And  you—love  me  a  little — still—" 

His  brows  came  together  heavily.     "I  don't  know 


350  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

ye,"  he  said.  "Ye're  a  woman  I  don't  know.  Ye're 
not  the  girl  I've  loved." 

Marie  looked  at  him  through  another  long  silence, 
the  color  of  hope  ebbing  from  even  her  lips.  But  the 
courage  of  desperation  was  in  her.  She  knelt  down 
and  taking  the  hand  that  hung  at  his  side  put  her  cheek 
against  it;  and  then  her  lips.  "But  I  am  that  girl, 
Monsieur.  I  would  always  be  that  girl  to  you.  Just 
always — love ;  nothing  but  love.  .  .  .  Monsieur,  the 
Indian  blood  in  me — which  you  hate — it  is  not  bad. 
Truly  it  is  not.  It  gives  me  faithfulness.  Only  just 
that—" 

"God!"  MacAllister  said,  through  his  teeth.  "Ye 
hurt  me!  But  I'll  have  to  tell  ye.  .  .  .  Stand  up, 
Marie.  .  .  .  It's  just  what  I  said.  Ye're  not  the 
girl  I  loved.  Ye're  a  woman  with  whom  I'm  not 
acquainted.  It's  asking  the  impossible  of  me.  It's  a 
stranger  ye're  asking  me  to  love." 

Marie  stood  with  the  look  of  death  on  her. 

With  an  effort,  MacAllister  went  on.  "I  want  to 
do  for  ye — just  as  I  did  the  first  night  ye  came.  Ye 
are  my  kin.  ...  Ye  must  stay  here  with  the  Men- 
dalls  till  I  know  what  to  do.    But — " 

She  waited — or,  rather,  she  seemed  too  lifeless  to 
question. 

MacAllister  made  another  effort.  "But — my  love's 
— just  dead,  Marie." 

She  stood  a  moment,  staring  vaguely.  Then  she 
turned  about,  stopped  aimlessly — and  then  went  on, 
out  of  the  room. 


LI 


MacALLISTER  watched  Marie  go  and  made  no 
motion  to  stop  her.  He  looked  at  the  door 
through  which  she  had  passed  until  the  sound  of  her 
slow  ascent  of  the  stairs  had  ceased.  Then  his  eyes 
shifted  to  the  floor.  He  stood  motionless  for  a  time, 
thinking. 

It  was  a  movement  in  the  hall  that  finally  stirred 
him,  a  heavier  footstep  on  the  stairs  than  Marie's.  He 
went  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Mendall  stood  in  her  doorway, 
and,  going  up  the  stairs,  was  Mendall. 

"Will  ye  come  in  here  for  a  minute — both  of  ye?" 
MacAllister  said.    "I  have  something  to  say  to  ye." 

They  came  in  and  looked  at  one  another,  three  faces 
tense  with  emotion,  MacAllister's  hard-set,  Mrs.  Men- 
dall's  absolutely  colorless,  Mendall's  crimson  and  with 
eyes  ablaze.  Evidently  they  had  overheard  what  had 
passed. 

"So  ye  know?"  MacAllister  said. 

It  was  Mrs.  Mendall  who  spoke.    "Yes." 

"I'm  saved  an  explanation  then.  .  .  .  We  were  to 
be  married  in  three  weeks.    .    .    .    That's  ended,  but 

351 


352  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

I  want  time  to  think  what's  best  for — Marie.    Will  ye 
keep  her  a  little — till  I  can  make  arrangements  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  that  will  not  be  possible,"  Mrs.  Men- 
dall  answered.  "It  will  be  best  for  her,  better  for  all 
of  us,  if  you  take  her  with  you  now." 

MacAllister  winced,  both  because  of  the  affront  to 
Marie  and  the  hurt  the  thought  of  seeing  Marie  again 
gave  him.  "I  can't  do  that.  It's  beyond  me.  .  .  . 
I  know  ye  have  been  put  to  trouble,  but  I  mean  ye  shall 
be  fully  remunerated.  Ye  gave  her  a  home,  and  that's 
no  small  thing  to  do.  I  thank  ye  for  that,  and  I  apolo- 
gize to  ye  both  for  the  deceit  that's  been  practised. 
Nevertheless,  Marie  is  my  kinswoman.  I  mean  she 
shall  have  every  consideration.  Since  ye  feel  as  ye 
do,  Mrs.  Mendall,  I'll  ask  only  that  she  stay  the  day 
— until  I  go  into  town  and  find  a  place  for  her.  .  .  . 
I'll  send  for  her  then — this  evening." 

Mrs.  Mendall  was  silent.  It  was  Mendall  who 
spoke.  "Marie  may  have  a  home  in  my  house  as 
long  as  she  needs  it,"  he  said  clearly. 

MacAllister  could  not  have  told  why  Mendall's 
speech  angered  him.  It  was  more  the  look  of  the 
man.  There  was  an  air  of  defiance  about  him;  or 
excitement.  His  eyes  were  blazing.  Was  it  just  that 
he  resented  his  wife's  hardness? 

"Thank  ye,"  MacAllister  returned  stiffly,  "but  I'll 
not  trouble  ye  longer  than  a  few  hours."  He  turned 
to  Mrs.  Mendall.  "Will  ye  kindly  tell  Marie  to  be 
ready  by  this  evening?    That  I'll  be  sending  for  her?" 

He  went  out  to  his  machine  and  handled  it  roughly, 


"I'LL   SEND    FOR    HER    THEN"       353 

jamming  it  into  high  speed  even  before  he  had  cleared 
the  grove.  He  had  been  angry  for  hours.  And  it 
was  anger  more  than  anything  else  that  held  him  now, 
the  same  stubborn  rage  and  hurt  and  hard  resolve  that 
had  banished  his  wife.  But,  from  experience,  he  knew 
that  when  anger  died  a  little,  he  would  suffer  horribly ; 
a  worse  torment  than  mourning  over  the  dead,  for  one 
thinks  of  the  dead  as  at  peace.  But  he  would  be  carry- 
ing about  with  him  Marie's  suffering  as  well  as  his 
own.  .  .  .  He  must  never  see  her  again;  both  for 
her  sake  and  his  own.  It  was  like  death,  without  its 
finality,    The  same  well-remembered  misery. 


LII 


AN  ADVANCED  WOMAN 


MacALLISTER  raced  with  his  thoughts,  against 
the  summer  wind,  going  by  the  shortest  way  to 
Freda  O'Rourke's  door.  For  six  years  he  had  carried 
most  of  his  difficulties  to  her. 

He  called  her  into  her  living-room  and  told  her 
Marie's  story,  from  start  to  finish,  standing  before  her 
with  the  same  grim  face  he  had  shown  Marie;  when 
restlessness  seized  him,  walking  the  floor  while  he 
talked.  And  Freda  listened  in  silence,  without  ques- 
tion or  comment,  until  he  had  finished;  just  as  years 
before,  she  had  listened  to  the  story  of  his  early 
tragedy.  That  had  been  during  the  uncertain  period 
when  she  was  deeply  indebted  to  him  and  he  was  still 
hotly  sore  over  his  marital  experience  and  deter- 
minedly averse  to  marriage;  when  each  was  testing 
the  character  of  the  other.  She  had  listened  to  him 
then,  thoughtfully  and  not  emotionally.  It  was  her 
understanding  of  him  and  her  accurate  appraisement 
of  the  consequences  to  them  both  that  had  steered  him 
clear  of  the  shoals  and  quicksands,  the  complications 
into  which  he  had  floundered  with  others — into  a  gen- 
uine friendship. 

354 


AN    ADVANCED    WOMAN  355 

Possibly  MacAllister  was  right  when  he  had  said 
that  Freda  was  "a  bit  of  a  superwoman."  It  is  more 
probable  that  she  was  simply  possessed  of  a  strong 
will,  of  great  self-control,  and  an  exceedingly  clear 
understanding.  That  she  was  imbued  with  the  mod- 
ern woman's  determination  to  discriminate  between 
mere  sex  attraction  and  love.  That  she  had  evolved  a 
philosophy  which  satisfied  herself,  concerning  the  rela- 
tions of  men  and  women.  That  she  had  decided  upon 
what  should  be  the  basis  for  the  relation  which  has 
to  do  with  peopling  the  world;  that  she  was  a  wor- 
shiper of  the  new-old  idea  that  marriage  should  be  a 
combination  of  the  best  elements  of  both  friendship 
and  sex  attraction,  and  that  that  combination  and  no 
other  should  be  given  the  name  of  love.  And,  also, 
that  friendship  unalloyed  by  the  usual  sex  complica- 
tions was  quite  possible  between  men  and  women.  In 
short,  that  Freda  O'Rourke  was  an  "advanced" 
woman,  though  not  of  the  "free-love"  or  "sympathy- 
craving"  order — which  is,  in  reality,  a  reversion  to  the 
hyper-civilization  of  the  Roman  era  and  has  no  right- 
ful place  in  the  hard  sense  of  the  modern  scheme. 

At  any  rate,  Freda  had  lived  up  to  her  beliefs.  She 
had  defied  the  universal  assumption  that  an  intimacy 
between  a  man  and  a  woman  can  have  but  one  sig- 
nificance, and  had  suffered  as  a  result.  She  had  han- 
dled MacAllister  wisely,  and  had  won  his  lasting 
friendship,  and  had  persisted  in  holding  what  she  had 
won  even  when  Laclasse  had  shown  its  disapproval 
so  plainly  that  MacAllister  had  become  aware  of  it. 


356  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

But,  though  enraged  over  the  slights  shown  her,  he 
had  not  asked  her  to  marry  him;  he  had  never  asked 
her  to  marry  him,  and  Freda  knew  why.  He  had  dis- 
covered early  that  she  would  demand  honesty  of  him ; 
he  knew  that  she  would  take  only  a  whole  loaf,  and 
he  had  but  half  a  loaf  to  offer  her;  in  the  latter  years, 
a  devoted  friendship,  even  affection,  but  not  the  per- 
fect combination  she  demanded. 

However  much  she  had  suffered  in  secret,  Freda  had 
clung  to  their  friendship.  What  she  would  be  giving 
MacAllister  in  return  for  real  love  was  a  secret  Freda 
had  always  guarded.  If,  like  all  women,  she  had 
dreamed  sometimes  that  MacAllister  might  awake  to 
the  perfect  thing  and  offer  it  to  her,  it  was  a  dream 
carefully  concealed.  Latterly,  a  dream  she  had  willed 
herself  not  to  dream;  what  she  had  was  better  than  the 
thing  most  wives  had,  to  her  way  of  thinking,  better 
even  than  the  thing  MacAllister  was  offering  Marie, 
which  Freda's  clear-sightedness  had  discovered  was 
principally  an  overwhelming  passion  which  was  capable 
of  as  overwhelming  a  revulsion.  It  was  the  same  crav- 
ing that  had  married  MacAllister  to  the  primitive  girl 
whose  weakness  had  entangled  them  both  in  tragedy. 
Had  his  feeling  for  Eugenie  been  love,  as  Freda  con- 
ceived of  love,  he  would  have  found  a  way  out  of  their 
difficulty  less  cruel  to  them  both  than  exile.  And,  vice 
versa,  had  Eugenie's  love  been  real  love,  she  would 
not  have  married  him;  the  entire  tragedy  would  have 
been  averted. 

But  Freda  had  judged   Marie  to  be  a  very  dif- 


AN   ADVANCED   WOMAN  357 

ferent  girl  from  Eugenie.  She  had  sounded  Marie, 
as  she  did  most  people  in  whom  she  was  interested. 
Marie  was  not  easy  to  fathom,  but  Freda  was  con- 
vinced, even  after  hearing  of  Marie's  deceit,  that  the 
girl  had  character ;  that  she  had  it  in  her  to  give  Mac- 
Allister  a  very  perfect  love.  It  was  merely  the  primi- 
tive in  her  that  had  succumbed. 

But,  at  the  same  time,  Freda  took  a  much  more 
lenient  view  of  Marie's  inheritance  than  MacAllister 
did.  Being  something  of  an  eugenist,  as  well  as  an 
analyst,  Freda  thought,  as  she  watched  MacAllister's 
angry  pacing,  that  Marie's  mixture  of  Latin  effer- 
vescence and  Indian  immobility  combined  with  Mac- 
Allister's hard  Scotch  qualities  would  make  a  child  of 
no  mean  type.  And  both  Marie  and  he  had  rare  physi- 
cal perfection,  health  and  strength  in  abundance.  She 
thought  of  it  with  a  constriction  of  the  heart,  because 
she  herself  had  given  the  best  six  years  of  her  life  to 
friendship  instead  of  to  motherhood,  the  portion  that 
might  have  been  hers,  for  she  had  not  been  without 
suitors,  men  who  had  not  appealed  to  her  particularly, 
not  as  MacAllister  did. 

Freda  set  the  hurt  aside,  and  as  MacAllister  talked 
of  the  present,  she  thought  of  the  future.  She  real- 
ized that  what  MacAllister  considered  the  end  was 
only  the  beginning.  Time,  and  time  only,  would  show 
how  much  real  love  there  was  beneath  all  his  hurt  and 
anger  and  revulsion  of  feeling.  He  had  been  shocked 
back  into  habit.  He  was  laboring  under  the  conviction 
that  this  was  an  outrage  paralfel  to  the  one  his  wife 


358  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

had  practised  on  him,  and  his  revulsion  of  feeling 
would  have  to  have  its  way  with  him.  He  had  thought 
himself  profoundly  in  love  with  a  young  untried  girl, 
the  combination  of  passion  and  reverence  a  man  of 
MacAllister's  type  bestows  on  a  girl,  and  suddenly  she 
stood  before  him  a  faulty  woman  he  did  not  know. 
Freda  understood  perfectly  his  repeated  assertion  that 
this  Marie  was  a  "stranger"  to  him.  And  she  realized, 
as  neither  he  nor  Marie  could  realize,  how  much  the 
future  depended  on  Marie.  It  was  even  possible  that, 
after  Marie  had  passed  through  the  agony  of  being 
thrust  aside  by  MacAllister's  anger,  Marie  herself 
might  undergo  a  revulsion  of  feeling;  that  depended 
on  the  sort  of  love  the  girl  really  felt  for  him. 

And  Freda  guessed  what  it  was  MacAllister  meant 
to  ask  of  her  long  before  he  reached  his  request.  "I've 
talked  with  Mrs.  Mendall  since  all  this,  and  she'll  not 
keep  Marie,"  MacAllister  concluded.  "She'll  not  keep 
her  longer  than  till  this  evening.  I'm  not  blaming  her 
for  feeling  as  she  does,  but  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Marie's  suffering ;  I  can't  bear  she  should  suffer  among 
strangers.  .  .  .  Would  ye  take  her,  Freda — for  just 
a  little?" 

There  were  many  things  Freda  would  rather  have 
done  than  this.  It  would  be  an  almost  insupportable 
test  of  the  thing  that  lay  between  herself  and  Mac- 
Allister, and  which  she  longed  to  keep  intact.  Until 
Marie  had  appeared,  she  had  had  the  best  there  was  in 
MacAllister  untouched  by  the  influence  of  any  other 
woman.     Marie  had  the  primitive  qualities  that  no 


AN    ADVANCED    WOMAN  359 

woman  loves,  no  matter  whether  she  is  herself  pos- 
sessed of  them  or  not.  It  had  been  a  little  hard  to 
stand  by  and  see  MacAllister  yield  himself  up  to 
Marie's  allure.  If  she  took  the  girl  into  her  house,  it 
meant  that  she  would  champion  Marie's  cause.  She 
would  not  take  her  otherwise.  .  .  .  But  what  was 
her  love  for  MacAllister  worth  if  it  could  not  stand 
even  such  a  test?  It  was  her  honest  conviction  that 
Marie  would  make  him  a  good  wife. 

"Of  course  I  will  take  her,"  she  said. 

"Ye're  fine,  Freda!"  MacAllister  returned  with  feel- 
ing. "I'd  go  through  fire  to  serve  ye,  ye  know  that !" 
Then,  because  he  was  in  the  state  when  a  man  speaks 
out  his  thoughts  without  first  having  smoothed  them, 
he  said  with  real  regret  and  genuine  wonderment :  "I 
wish  it  had  come  to  love  between  us  two,  Freda.  I've 
been  awful  near  to  loving  ye,  all  these  years.  Tell  me 
why,  instead  of  friendship,  we've  not  had  for  each 
other  the  fever  of  the  blood  I've  had  for  the  two  who 
are  by  no  means  yer  equal  ?"  He  put  his  big  hands  on 
her  shoulders,  a  favorite  act  of  his  when  moved.  "Tell 
me,  ye  who  are  so  wise?" 

Though  she  smiled  whimsically,  Freda  flushed. 
"Perhaps  because  I  am  'wise*  .  .  .  but  more,  I 
think,  because  you  obey  pretty  literally  the  great  law 
of  opposites.  Because  your  sex  instinct  craves  the 
primitive." 

"Eh,  no!"  MacAllister  said  sharply.    "I  hate  it!" 

"That's  merely  your  education  in  prejudice.  You 
don't  want  it  in  its  entirety,  not  the  naked  savage  who 


360  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

has  the  brains  of  a  child,  but  the  touch  of  it  you  do 
want."  And  she  added,  bravely :  "Perhaps  your  race 
needs  it.  Perhaps  you  have  obeyed  a  need  without 
knowing  it." 

His  face  set  in  hard  lines  again.  He  took  his  hands 
from  her  shoulders.  "It  may  be  inbred  prejudice,  but 
it'll  be  the  thing  will  survive  longest  in  me." 

Freda  did  not  say  that  she  doubted  the  assertion,  but 
when  he  told  her  with  a  twist  of  his  features  that  be- 
tokened pain :  "I'm  meaning  to  send  for  Marie.  I'll 
not  see  her  again,"  she  smiled  a  little  sadly.  She  was 
quite  right;  it  depended  largely  on  Marie — very 
largely. 

But  she  said,  practically  enough :  "Send  for  her  as 
soon  as  you  like.  Her  room  will  be  ready  for  her,  one 
of  the  rooms  you  used  to  have;  the  room  that  looks 
over  the  garden." 


LIII 


MENDALL  FOLLOWS 


\S  soon  as  the  noise  of  MacAllister's  quick  going 
XV  had  died,  Mrs.  Mendall  took  his  message  up  to 
Marie.  She  gave  it  through  the  closed  door,  waiting 
only  long  enough  to  be  assured  that  Marie  heard.  She 
had  rapped  and  then  spoken  as  quickly  as  possible,  for 
fear  the  girl  would  open  the  door.  Marie  was  stir- 
ring; from  the  sudden  silence  that  followed,  Mrs. 
Mendall  knew  she  had  heard. 

She  hurried  away  then.  She  did  not  want  to  see 
Marie;  she  had  a  dread  of  seeing  her;  she  hoped  she 
would  never  see  her  again;  that  MacAllister  would 
send  her  away  from  Laclasse.  She  felt  certain  he 
would  do  that.  It  was  the  only  bit  of  comfort  the 
morning  had  brought  her.  It  would  be  easier  then  for 
her  to  take  up  life  again,  and  try  to  forget  the  break. 
Carl  would  be  obsessed  for  a  time,  but  after  a  space  of 
restlessness  he  would  forget.    That  was  his  nature. 

Mendall  was  still  in  the  reception  room  when  she 
came  down.  She  had  left  him  at  the  window,  looking 
after  MacAllister,  and  now  he  had  begun  to  walk  the 
floor,  aimlessly,  yet  in  an  excited  way,  the  same  ex- 

361 


362  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

citement  he  had  shown  when  he  had  told  MacAllister 
that  his  home  was  Marie's  as  long  as  she  needed  it. 

He  looked  up  when  she  came  in.  "Have  you  left 
her  alone  up  there?"  he  demanded  angrily.  "You 
might  at  least  have  stopped  to  say  a  word  to  her !  One 
would  think  a  woman  would  have  that  much  pity  in 
her!" 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  often  seen  him  angry  at  others, 
grow  black  and  curse  them  roundly,  but  in  all  her 
knowledge  of  him  he  had  never  given  her  a  rough 
word.  He  had  often  been  careless,  frequently  unap- 
proachable, and  even  more  frequently  silent  and  de- 
pressed, but  never  harsh  or  angry. 

She  shrank  a  little  under  his  anger,  though  she  felt 
it  was  undeserved.  "I  couldn't.  How  could  you  ex- 
pect it  of  me,  Carl?  And  she  wouldn't  want  it.  I 
can't  help  being  glad  that  she  is  going.  She  has 
brought  nothing  but  trouble  to  us  and  to  Mr.  Mac- 
Allister— and  to  herself." 

"He  has  thrown  her  away — gone  and  left  her!  It 
is  enough  to  drive  her  mad!"  Mendall  said  passion- 
ately. "And  you  refused  her  a  roof — even  for  a 
night.  I  saw  her  face  when  she  went  out  from  here. 
She's  in  despair." 

"Mr.  MacAllister  told  her  he  would  care  for  her, 
Carl,  and  he  will." 

"Yes,  thrown  her  a  bone — as  he  would  a  dog !  .  .  . 
She  won't  take  it.  She'll  do  something  desperate  in- 
stead." 

Mrs.  Mendall  said  nothing.     There  was  no  use  in 


MENDALL    FOLLOWS  363 

arguing  with  him  while  he  was  in  this  mood.  It  would 
be  utterly  useless  to  talk  of  her  own  pain  or  of  his 
culpability.  He  was  thinking  of  Marie  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  every  one  and  everything  else.  There  was 
nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to  endure  and  be  patient. 

When  she  spoke  it  was  gently.  "It  has  all  been  ter- 
rible, Carl.  I  know  she  is  suffering.  We  have  all 
suffered.  But  life  will  have  to  go  on  just  the  same. 
Let  us  try  to  be  patient  with  each  other,  dear.  It  is 
the  only  thing  we  can  do.  .  .  .  Come  down  with 
me  now,  and  let  me  give  you  something  to  eat.  You 
will  be  ill;  you  had  no  supper,  and  you  have  had  no 
breakfast.  The  new  maid  is  here.  I  will  send  her  up 
to  Marie.    Please  come,  Carl." 

Eat !  While  his  brain  was  afire  and  his  heart  rising 
into  his  mouth,  choking  him !  Go  down  and  allow  him- 
self to  be  surrounded  by  the  eternal  routine,  the  little 
every-day  things,  while  there  was  pounding  in  him  the 
realization  that  Marie  was  discredited,  cast  aside,  des- 
perate !  Even  if  she  took  MacAllister's  help,  she  would 
be  sent  away  from  Laclasse.  It  was  of  that  he  was 
thinking. 

"I  don't  want  anything,"  he  said  in  a  smothered 
way.  "Send  the  girl  up  to  her,  if  that  is  the  best  you 
can  do.    She  ought  not  to  be  alone." 

Mrs.  Mendall  stood  for  a  moment,  watching  him, 
while  she  gathered  decision.  If  he  had  a  particle  of 
love  for  her,  what  she  had  to  tell  him  must  draw  his 
thoughts  to  her  and  to  the  future  they  must  try  to  live 
out  together,     She  had  decided  in  the  night  that  as 


364  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

soon  as  Marie  had  gone  from  their  house  forever  she 
would  tell  him.  When  he  knew,  his  arms  would  circle 
her.  They  must  circle  her.  It  would  kill  her  if  they 
did  not. 

She  came  close  to  him,  stood  before  him,  stopping 
him  in  his  walk.  "Carl — "  she  said  softly,  all  the  love 
she  had  for  him  risen  into  her  eyes. 

But  Mendall  neither  heard  nor  saw  her.  He  was 
listening,  with  head  upflung.  A  door  above  had 
opened,  Marie's  door,  and  then  there  was  the  sound 
of  her  steps  on  the.  stairs.  She  came  along  the  hall, 
passed  their  door  like  a  shadow,  and  went  out;  across 
the  porch,  out  through  the  grove  and  over  the  crest  of 
the  hill. 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  been  so  gripped  by  the  dread  that 
she  was  going  to  come  in  to  them  that  she  did  not 
move.  But  Mendall  saw  Marie  distinctly  as  she  passed 
the  door.  He  looked  after  her  as  she  went,  his  brows 
drawn  in  anxiety. 

"She  is  going  to  wander  around  out  there,"  he  said, 
more  to  himself  than  to  Mrs.  Mendall.  "I  must  go 
after  her — she'll  do  a  harm  to  herself  in  the  end.  I've 
been  afraid  of  it  from  the  moment  he  turned  her  down. 
That's  why  I  wanted  you  to  go  and  talk  to  her.  Didn't 
you  see  her  face  just  now — she  is  beside  herself." 

His  fear  jerked  Mrs.  Mendall  away  from  thoughts 
of  herself  and  of  him,  into  terror  and  bewilderment. 
"Oh,  Carl— she  wouldn't!    .    .    .    What  shall  we  do!" 

"Yes,  she  would.  She's  the  kind  would  do  it.  I'll 
have  to  go  after  her."    He  stiffened  suddenly,  his  ear 


MENDALL    FOLLOWS  365 

caught  by  a  sound,  the  distant  rumble  of  the  suburban 
car.  "God,  Margaret !  I  believe  she's  gone  to  the  car ! 
If  she  gets  it,  there's  no  way  of  following  her !" 

Mrs.  Mendall  had  regained  some  of  her  usual  self- 
control.  "We  must  go  after  her,  Carl,  and  take  her 
to  Mr.  MacAllister — it's  the  only  thing — " 

But  Mendall  was  already  in  the  hall.  He  stopped 
only  to  catch  up  his  hat,  and  then  he  ran,  through  the 
grove  and  over  the  hill. 


LIV 


A  POSSIBILITY 

MENDALL  almost  missed  the  car.  He  caught  it 
only  by  running  for  it.  From  the  crest  of  the 
hill  he  had  seen  it  rounding  the  curve  in  the  cut  below, 
and  as  he  plunged  down  the  hillside  he  saw  Marie  get 
in.  It  started ;  then,  at  his  call,  stopped  again  to  take 
him  on.  He  was  panting  and  breathless  both  from 
exertion  and  a  very  genuine  fear. 

He  waited  on  the  platform  for  a  time  to  catch  his 
breath  and  calm  himself  somewhat  before  joining 
Marie.    Then  he  went  in  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

She  did  not  see  him.  She  sat  with  eyes  fixed  on 
space,  her  face  contracting  occasionally,  as  if  stabbed 
by  pain;  otherwise  it  was  expressionless.  She  was 
haggard,  gray-lipped  and  heavy-eyed.  There  was  the 
look  of  the  sleep-walker  about  her;  as  if  her  faculties 
were  in  abeyance.  Mendall  sat  quietly  beside  her  for 
a  time,  watching  her,  and  then  touched  her,  put  his 
hand  on  hers. 

Marie's  recognition  of  his  presence  was  slow  and 
vague.  She  looked  down  at  his  hand,  then  turned  as 
slowly  and  looked  at  him.  There  was  not  a  trace  of 
her  usual  feline  intentness  in  the  gaze  she  fixed  on 

366 


A   POSSIBILITY  367 

him.  Her  eyes  were  slightly  clouded,  as  if  she  saw 
imperfectly.  She  showed  no  surprise  at  his  presence; 
she  did  not  even  speak. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Marie  ?"  he  asked. 

She  answered  as  slowly  as  she  had  moved.  "I — 
don't — know — " 

"Do  you  know  where  you  want  to  go  ?" 

"No — "  Then  she  added,  with  an  effort.  "They 
were  coming  for  me — I  wish  to  go  away." 

Mendall  realized  that  she  was  even  more  dazed  than 
he  had  thought.  He  saw  that  she  had  only  her  small 
hand-bag  with  her. 

"I  am  going  to  stay  with  you  till  you  know  what 
you  want  to  do.  I  came  after  you  because  I  saw  that 
you  were  not  fit  to  be  alone,"  he  said,  much  as  he 
would  have  spoken  to  a  dazed  and  troubled  child. 

Marie  made  no  answer,  and  evidently  not  because 
she  was  taken  aback  by  his  presence,  or  by  what  he 
said. 

"Were  you  thinking  of  going  away  from  Laclasse?" 
Mendall  asked  next. 

"Yes — I  want  to  go  on  the  train."  And  as  if  the 
mental  exertion  required  for  her  answer  had  reminded 
her  of  something,  she  clutched  at  the  hand-bag  which 
had  slipped  from  her  lax  hold.  She  opened  it  with  the 
uncertain  movements  of  an  aged  person,  saw  that  it 
contained  her  purse,  and  dropped  back  into  an  indif- 
ference that  seemed  to  make  her  oblivious  of  his  pres- 
ence. 

And  Mendall  was  silent.    He  was  trying  to  decide 


368  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

what  to  do.  He  felt  certain  that,  if  urged  to  return, 
or  if  any  way  coerced,  Marie  would  wake  to  a  blind 
rage,  or  to  some  desperate  act.  She  was  temporarily 
irresponsible;  numbed  by  shock,  and  with  only  the 
animal  instinct  to  wander  away  from  the  place  where 
she  had  been  hurt;  into  some  corner  where  she  could 
be  hidden;  the  same  instinct  that  makes  an  animal 
drag  itself  into  a  corner  to  die.  It  was  MacAllister 
who  had  struck  her ;  she  was  crawling  away  from  him ; 
from  the  thing  that  hurt,  and  without  a  thought,  so 
far,  of  the  future.  If  he  urged  her  to  go  back  with 
him,  she  knew  it  would  mean  that  she  was  being  taken 
back  to  MacAllister. 

Possibly  it  was  the  thought  of  MacAllister,  Men- 
dall's  deep-seated  jealousy  of  him,  possibly  the  con- 
sciousness that  he  was  alone  with  Marie,  riding  on 
with  her  into  uncertainty,  that  brought  the  temptation 
to  Mendall;  the  sudden  overwhelming  suggestion,  the 
possibility  of  going  with  Marie,  away  from  Laclasse, 
away  from  the  bonds  of  domesticity,  from  the  torment 
of  teaching,  from  the  life  he  loathed  and  a  thousand 
times  had  longed  to  leave.  Freedom  and  Marie — her 
companionship,  her  inspiration — perhaps,  in  time, 
something  closer — whatever  he  could  win  from  her! 
.  .  .  The  possibility  had  come  upon  Mendall  with 
the  force  of  a  shock,  wrapped  him  in  heat,  and  left 
him  quick-breathing  with  excitement  and  purposeful. 
...  It  was  the  perfect  feasibility  of  the  thing  that 
overwhelmed  him,  that  beat  down  the  thought  of  Mar- 
garet, every  restraining  suggestion.     He  would  not 


A    POSSIBILITY  369 

even  have  to  go  back  to  a  painful  scene.  He  could 
simply  go  on  with  Marie,  and  write  to  his  wife.  .  .  . 
The  opportunity  to  paint,  and  Marie!  It  was  too 
much  for  him. 

He  rode  on  beside  Marie  in  a  silence  as  complete  as 
her  own,  his  excited  imagination  painting  the  future. 
He  troubled  her  with  no  more  questions  until  they 
came  into  Laclasse,  past  the  stock-yards  and  through 
the  conglomerate  collection  of  factories,  tenement 
houses  and  cheap  stores,  to  the  crowded  junction  of 
the  several  car-lines  leading  into  Laclasse;  it  was  the 
end  of  the  suburban  line. 

Marie  roused  a  little  to  look  about  her. 

"Were  you  meaning  to  go  to  the  station  ?"  Mendall 
asked. 

"Yes — but  I  do  not  know  the  car." 

"We'll  find  that  out.    I'm  going  with  you." 

"You  go  into  Laclasse,  then?" 

She  evidently  attached  no  significance  to  what  he 
said.  She  appeared  to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  fol- 
lowed her  purposely ;  that  he  had  said  so. 

The  descent  into  the  heat,  and  the  dust  and  rattle  of 
coming  and  going  cars  seemed  to  confuse  her.  Men- 
dall had  never  seen  her  look  helpless;  she  looked  so 
now,  almost  as  if  she  would  faint.  He  had  planned 
a  little  in  his  erratic  fashion.  He  drew  her  beneath 
the  awning  of  the  comer  store. 

"Come  into  the  shade  while  we  talk  a  little.    .    . 
Marie,  I  heard  what  went  on  this  morning.     I  don't 
blame  you  for  not  wanting  to  be  beholden  to  MacAllis- 


370  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

ter  any  longer.  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  want 
to  go.  I  want  to  help  you — I  followed  you  because  I 
wanted  to  help  you.  Tell  me  where  you  want  to  go, 
and  I'll  help  you  to  go." 

At  mention  of  MacAUister,  Marie's  brows  con- 
tracted sharply.  "That  is  why  I  go  away — I  do  not 
wish  to  give  him  any  more  trouble.  ...  I  want  to 
go  a  long  way — where  he  will  not  follow.  There  I  can 
find  something  to  do."  Suffering  and  faintness  had 
brought  the  moisture  to  her  lips  and  brow.  She  had 
begun  to  tremble.  Mendall's  offer  of  help  seemed  to 
have  made  no  impression  on  her.  She  was  thinking 
of  MacAUister  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 

"Would  you  go  to  New  York?"  Mendall  suggested. 

"Yes  ...  it  does  not  matter,"  she  said  faintly. 
"I  know  that  place." 

Mendall  had  guessed  that  would  be  her  answer. 
"Then  let  me  plan  for  you  a  little.  It's  not  one  o'clock 
yet,  and  there  is  no  train  going  east  until  evening. 
You  are  ill,  Marie.  You  are  in  no  condition  to  sit  at 
the  station  for  hours.  If  you  collapse,  there  is  no  one 
to  take  you  in  but  MacAUister.  What  you  must  do  is 
to  rest  until  evening.  There  is  a  little  hotel  here,  in 
the  next  block.  It's  a  cheap  place,  but  it's  respectable. 
If  you  will  go  there  and  lie  down,  I'll  go  on  into  La- 
classe.  I'll  find  out  about  trains,  and  then  I'll  come 
back  for  you  and  take  you  to  the  station.  .  .  .  Will 
you,  Marie?" 

She  acquiesced  after  a  moment's  knitting  of  her 
brows ;  perhaps  because  even  in  her  numbness  she  was 


A    POSSIBILITY  371 

conscious  of  feeling  ill,  and  the  suggestion  that  she 
would  be  upon  MacAllister's  hands  was  a  spur  that 
pricked  her  into  decision.  The  heat  was  already  mak- 
ing her  dizzy. 

"Yes.    Then  I  can  think  a  little." 

"Come  with  me  then." 

It  was  a  poor  place  into  which  he  brought  her,  a 
small  commercial  hotel,  an  adjunct  to  a  lunch  room. 
But  it  was  clean.  There  was  only  a  stupid-looking 
boy  at  the  desk  when  they  came  in,  for  it  was  the  noon 
hour  and  the  proprietor  was  busy  in  the  lunch  room. 

Mendall  seated  Marie  while  he  made  arrangements. 
He  placed  no  names  on  the  register,  though  he  made 
a  feint  of  doing  so  while  the  boy  searched  for  a  key. 
He  hurried  the  boy  into  forget  fulness;  he  wanted  tea 
and  some  lunch  sent  up  immediately.  Mendall  was 
too  excited  to  be  hungry,  but  things  about  him  had 
begun  to  look  curiously  white  and  unreal,  as  he  guessed 
they  looked  to  Marie. 

When  they  reached  the  room  above,  he  thought 
Marie  was  going  to  faint.  He  took  off  her  hat, 
brought  her  water  for  her  face  and  hands  and,  when 
the  tea  came,  made  her  take  some.  When  he  had 
eaten  something  himself,  he  lost  the  feeling  of  un- 
reality, but  none  of  the  tenseness  that  held  him.  And 
Marie  looked  less  ghastly  and  vague. 

"You  take  much  trouble  for  me,"  she  said,  more  in 
her  usual  manner. 

Mendall  dreaded  beyond  anything  the  possibility  of 
Marie's  return  to  reason  before  he  put  her  on  the  train 


372  THE   JIGER'S   COAT, 

for  New  York.  His  plan  had  grown  into  complete- 
ness. The  same  train  would  carry  them  both  to  New 
York,  but  she  should  not  know  that  until  she  reached 
the  end  of  her  journey.  He  meant  to  give  her  no  hint 
of  his  intention. 

Mendall  did  not  have  what  he  called  evil  intentions 
toward  Marie.  Even  if  such  a  thing  had  been  possible 
to  him,  he  had  far  too  high  an  estimate  of  Marie's 
intelligence  to  think  for  a  moment  that  he  could  entrap 
her  into  wrong-doing.  What  would  be  her  attitude  to 
him  when  she  discovered  that  they  were  together  in 
the  same  city  he  did  not  know.  But  they  would  both 
be  homeless,  both  looking  for  employment,  and  the 
rest  of  the  world  strangers  to  them.  And  there  would 
be  no  MacAllister.  That  was  ended.  What  acuteness 
Mendall  possessed  was  bent  upon  carrying  his  adven- 
ture through.  What  Marie  would  give  him  remained 
to  be  seen. 

He  wished  intensely  that  he  did  not  have  to  leave 
her.  But  he  must  go  into  Laclasse  before  the  banks 
closed;  that  was  the  first  necessity.  If  only  she  would 
go  to  sleep.  In  her  exhausted  state  she  would  sleep 
for  hours. 

He  shook  up  the  pillows  on  the  bed  and  drew  down 
the  blinds.  "Come  and  lie  down,"  he  urged.  "See  if 
you  can't  sleep.    I'll  sit  by  you  for  a  little  while." 

Marie  did  as  he  asked.  But  her  eyes  did  not  close. 
She  lay  staring  at  the  ceiling.  Presently  she  turned 
her  head  and  looked  about  the  room. 

It  was  meanly  furnished,  much  as  the  room  in  the 


A    POSSIBILITY  373 

decrepit  hotel  from  which  she  had  crept  secretly  not 
more  than  three  months  before.  The  dimness  of  the 
place,  yellowed  by  the  sun  on  the  dingy  window-shades, 
gave  it  an  aspect  that  carried  her  back  to  that  night. 
She  was  going  as  she  had  come,  only  with  far  less. 
She  was  discredited,  despised  by  the  man  whom  she 
loved.  The  review  of  all  that  had  passed  since  that 
night  when  she  had  planned  her  deceit  brought  her  to 
the  wreckage  and  the  despair  of  the  present.  She 
shivered,  with  a  sharp  intake  of  breath,  her  face  twist- 
ing in  agony,  and  suddenly  she  began  to  weep,  slow 
tears  at  first,  and  then  with  a  shaking  of  her  entire 
body  and  a  heaving  of  her  chest  that  made  lying  still 
impossible.  She  drew  herself  up  and  sat  with  knees 
clasped  and  head  bent  to  the  storm  that  swept  her. 

Mendall  had  never  heard  or  seen  such  weeping, 
deep,  convulsive,  rending.  It  was  not  hysteria,  she  did 
not  scream,  she  only  moaned  and  whispered  like  a  soul 
twisted,  tortured,  utterly  lost.  "I  wish  I  were  dead! 
I  wish  I  were  dead !  .  .  .  What  does  it  matter  what 
becomes  of  me!  I  am  yellow — I'm  accursed — I'm  a 
golden  woman  of  the  Isthmus,  like  my  mother !  I  wish 
I  were  dead — !" 

She  sank  forward  on  the  bed,  her  clutching  fingers 
dragging  at  its  covering  until  she  lay  in  the  midst  of 
dishevelment,  writhing  and  twisting  in  intolerable 
agony. 

Mendall  could  not  endure  it.  He  forgot  caution, 
everything.  He  lifted  Marie  up  and  held  her  tightly. 
What  he  said  to  her  while  the  storm  lasted  he  never 


374  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

knew  with  exactness;  certainly  that  he  was  hers  and 
would  never  leave  her.  That  he  was  going  with  her 
and  going  to  care  for  her.  And  whether  comforted 
by  what  he  said,  or  because  of  the  same  convulsive 
necessity  to  clutch  and  cling  to  something  that  had 
made  her  grip  and  drag  at  the  bed-clothes,  Marie  clung 
to  him. 

Mendall  held  her  and  talked  to  her.  He  kissed  her 
convulsed  face,  her  heaving  shoulders,  her  wet  and 
tangled  hair.  It  was  not  so  much  a  passion  of  love  as 
a  passion  of  pity  that  moved  him,  that  emotionalism 
of  his  that  his  wife  had  never  learned  to  capture.  If 
it  were  possible  for  Margaret  Mendall  to  weep  with 
such  utter  savage  abandon,  he  would  never  have  left 
her. 

Mendall  talked  to  Marie  and  soothed  her,  until  little 
by  little  she  relaxed  into  after- weeping,  the  dry  sobs 
that  at  gradually  lengthening  intervals  caught  her  and 
shook  her.  He  held  her  until  she  lay  still,  except  for 
her  irregular  breathing,  as  relaxed  as  in  a  faint.  Men- 
dall thought  at  first  that  she  was  slipping  into  uncon- 
sciousness— until  he  remembered  the  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion that  had  held  her  while  he  had  carried  her  up  the 
hillside.  She  had  wept  like  that  once  before,  and 
dropped  into  sleep. 

He  laid  her  back  against  the  pillows  finally,  and 
stood  looking  down  at  her.  The  only  sign  she  gave  of 
stirred  consciousness  was  a  half  lifting  of  her  swollen 
eyelids,  an  edge  of  white  that  showed  and  then  was 
gone.    He  knew  that  she  slept,  just  as  she  had  slept 


A    POSSIBILITY  375 

beneath  the  cottonwoods  in  the  ravine.  She  would 
sleep  through  the  afternoon — until  he  returned  and 
roused  her.  And  if  he  was  going  to  take  her  away, 
he  must  go,  and  at  once. 

Mendall  did  not  risk  waking  her  by  even  so  much 
as  a  touch.  He  wanted  too  intensely  the  thing  he  felt 
certain  now  the  future  would  bring  him.  With  her 
beside  him,  how  he  would  paint!  .  .  .  He  watched 
a  little  longer,  then  softly  went  out. 


LV 


A  RACE  WITH  THE  WIND 

IT  was  after  sundown  when  MacAllister  came  back 
again  through  the  grove  to  the  Mendalls'  door,  the 
third  journey  his  car  had  made  that  day.  The  chauf- 
feur he  had  sent  for  Marie  had  returned  with  a  mes- 
sage which  had  brought  MacAllister  to  the  Mendall 
house  with  all  the  speed  he  could  make. 

The  maid  who  admitted  him  was  not  Lucy.  She 
was  a  white  girl,  but  no  more  intelligent  looking  than 
the  mulatto.  MacAllister  saw  at  once  that  she  knew 
nothing  of  disturbing  circumstances;  she  was  too  evi- 
dently surprised  by  his  air  of  haste  and  excitement. 
He  was  roughened  by  the  wind  and  very  pale. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Mendall?"  he  demanded. 

She  told  him  that  Mrs.  Mendall  was  not  well ;  that 
she  was  lying  down. 

"In  her  room?" 

MacAllister  did  not  wait  for  her  answer,  but  pushed 
by  her  to  the  open  door  of  Mrs.  Mendall's  room.  Her 
small  figure  lay  propped  against  the  pillows.  Her 
white  face  and  heavily  circled  eyes  warned  MacAllis- 
ter of  tragedy. 

But  when  his  stride  brought  him  to  her  her  voice 
376 


A    RACE    WITH    THE   WIND  377 

was  calm :  "Will  you  please  close  the  door,  Mr.  Mac- 
Allister?" 

MacAllister  shut  it  and  came  back  to  her.  "I  got 
yer  message  saying  just  that  Marie'd  gone.  What's 
happened  to  her?"  He  was  grim  in  his  anxiety. 

Mrs.  Mendall  looked  up  at  him  as  he  towered  over 
her.  "She  went  after  I  told  her  that  you  were  going 
to  send  for  her.  She  came  down  and  went  without  a 
word  to  anybody — and  Carl  followed  her — "  She 
stopped. 

"Weel,  and  what  then?" 

"She  has  gone  away — and  Carl  has  gone  with  her." 

MacAllister  did  not  grasp  her  meaning  in  the  least. 
On  the  contrary,  he  relaxed  into  a  degree  of  relief. 
"Weel,  he'll  see  no  harm  comes  to  her!"  It  was  quite 
another  fear  that  had  ridden  with  him  over  those  miles 
of  speed. 

Mrs.  Mendall  scarcely  knew  how  to  tell  him.  "He 
has  gone  away  with  her — and  to  stay.  .  .  .  My  hus- 
band loves  Marie,  Mr.  MacAllister;  he  has  loved  her 
for  some  time.  He  says,  in  the  letter  he  sent  out  to 
me  by  a  messenger,  that  you  had  thrown  her  away, 
and  he  was  going  with  her ;  that  they  would  be  on  their 
way  when  his  letter  reached  me.  He  is  taking  her  to 
New  York,  where  he  says  he  is  going  to  take  a  studio 
and  paint.  .  .  .  She  was  desperate — I  don't  think 
she  knew  what  she  was  doing  when  she  left  here,  so  I 
think  he  has  persuaded  her." 

MacAllister  had  received  the  blow  standing,  and  he 
still  stood — through  the  moments  of  realization — long 


378  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

enough  for  a  distinct  remembrance  of  Marie's  face 
when  she  had  turned  away  from  him,  and  of  Men- 
dall's  look  of  excitement  and  defiance. 

Then,  with  a  smothered  word,  he  went  to  the  win- 
dow, for  strong  man  though  he  was,  he  felt  the  need 
of  air,  some  relief  from  the  rush  of  blood  that  stran- 
gled him.  This  was  a  deal  worse  than  Kraup's  hands 
on  his  throat.  ...  He  struggled  with  suffocation 
through  the  moments  it  took  him  to  array  the  facts, 
to  gage  the  possibilities  and  the  certainties — and  to 
grant  his  part  in  a  tragedy  which  was  even  a  worse 
thing  than  the  fear  he  had  brought  with  him.  Mrs. 
Mendall  heard  his  thick  accusation  of  himself : 

"And  'twas  I  drove  her  to  it." 

MacAllister  could  think  clearly  enough  in  a  crisis. 
Disaster  did  not  daze  him  or  distract  him ;  it  urged  him 
to  immediate  and  definite  action,  but  with  all  his  facul- 
ties under  control.  He  could  command  calmness,  just 
as  Mrs.  Mendall  could  command  it. 

He  came  back  to  her.  "Will  ye  tell  me  now,  please 
— how  it's  come  about — this  thing  ye've  told  me?  I'll 
know  then  how  best  to  do  the  only  thing  there  is  to  be 
done." 

Mrs.  Mendall  knew  what  it  was  he  wanted  to  be 
told.  "I  didn't  suspect  until  the  night  of  Mrs.  Ko- 
tany's  dance.  I  couldn't  believe  it  then.  I  thought 
only  that  there  was  danger  to  Carl  in  Marie's  being  in 
our  house,  and  I  decided  she  must  go.  But  I  had  to 
wait  until  you  came.  That  night — last  night — Carl 
told  me.    I  asked  him  directly.    He  confessed  that  he 


A   RACE   WITH   THE   WIND  379 

loved  Marie.  He  said  that  he  loved  me  still,  but  that 
she  had  the  same  fascination  for  him  as  his  painting." 
Then,  because  Mrs.  Mendall  had  reached  the  depths 
that  day,  and  out  of  the  depths  had  evolved  a  philos- 
ophy that  she  meant  should  sustain  her  in  the  future, 
she  was  honest.  "And  I  feel  that,  in  a  way,  I  am 
responsible  for  what  has  happened  this  afternoon.  If, 
after  you  left,  I  had  gone  to  Marie  and  spoken  kindly, 
all  this  might  not  have  happened.  And,  Mr.  Mac- 
Allister,  Carl  told  me  that  Marie  had  never  tried  to 
tempt  him  or  play  with  him." 

MacAllister  was  bitter  in  his  condemnation  of  the 
man  who  meant  to  profit  by  his  own  harshness.  "Yer 
husband  loves  ye,  does  he,  and  he's  left  ye  like  this! 
And  now  he'd  take  advantage  of  Marie!  I  haven't 
words  for  the  like  of  him!"  It  was  a  flash  of  jealous 
anger  that  caught  him  and  shook  him. 

Mrs.  Mendall  looked  at  him  steadily.  Her  body  was 
weak,  but  there  was  determination  in  her  eyes.  "Mr. 
MacAllister,  I  don't  want  to  hear  Carl  spoken  of  in 
that  way.  I  am  trying  not  to  think  of  him  in  that  way. 
I  know  him  as  no  one  else  does,  and  yet,  I  think  that 
to-day,  for  the  first  time,  I  have  really  understood  him. 
He  is  a  man  with  a  fixed  idea  that  completely  domi- 
nates him.  No  man  with  a  fixed  idea  is  quite  sane.  I 
think,  if  kept  to  his  life  here,  he  would  have  gone  mad. 
His  going  away  was  a  sort  of  wild  attempt  at  self- 
preservation,  and  his  infatuation  for  Marie  is  part  of 
the  same  struggle.  He  has  gone,  and  I  believe  he  will 
paint  in  spite  of  everything.    His  painting  is  more  to 


380  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

him  than  any  woman,  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  and  I  believe  some  day  he  will  be  a  great  artist. 
...  I  want  to  think  about  Carl  in  this  way,  Mr. 
MacAllister — no  matter  what  comes  or  what  any  one 
has  to  say  about  it.  I  mean  to  think  kindly  about 
everybody,  because  thinking  any  other  way  will  hurt 
me.  I  don't  intend  to  be  despairing  or  bitter  or  angry. 
I  mean  to  be  calm  and  courageous." 

She  looked  the  things  she  said  she  meant  to  be,  as 
she  lay  there;  even  her  assertions  were  made  with  a 
certain  restraint,  a  consideration  for  herself. 

MacAllister  had  no  answer  to  it  all,  though  her 
courage  touched  him.  She  was  the  more  pathetic  be- 
cause of  it.  He  had  always  liked  her,  and  never  more 
than  now.  But  her  beliefs  did  not  alter  facts,  and 
time  spent  in  talk  was  a  waste  of  precious  moments. 
He  must  get  back  to  town  at  once.  And  it  was  borne 
in  upon  MacAllister  that,  in  a  measure,  he  was  re- 
sponsible for  this  disrupted  household;  he  had,  in  a 
way,  forced  Marie  upon  Mrs.  Mendall  and,  without 
realizing,  had  thrown  Marie  to  any  one  who  would 
give  her  comfort. 

"Ye' re  right  to  face  the  future  in  that  spirit,"  he 
said  more  kindly.  "There' re  not  many  could  do  it. 
.  .  .  But  I'm  thinking  about  what  ye'll  do  right  now. 
Ye  can't  stay  here." 

She  had  evidently  planned  a  little.  "I  must  find  a 
place  to  stay  in  Laclasse." 

"It's  best  ye  should  not  even  stay  the  night  here.  I 
must  go  back  as  fast  as  I  can.    Just  put  a  few  things 


A   RACE    WITH    THE   WIND  381 

together,  and  come  on  in  with  me.  Ye  can  get  what's 
necessary  later.  The  girl  must  come  too.  I'll  not 
consent  to  leave  ye  two  women  here  alone." 

Mrs.  Mendall  sat  up.  "But  I  have  no  idea  yet  where 
to  go."  She  was  trying  to  conquer  the  desolation  that 
swept  her  at  the  thought  of  leaving  her  home.  It 
was  almost  too  much,  even  for  her  determined  cour- 
age. And  yet  the  night  spent  alone  there  would  be  a 
horror. 

"I  know  where  ye'll  go,"  MacAllister  said  de- 
cidedly. "It's  to  Freda  O'Rourke.  There's  no  finer 
or  straighter  woman  in  this  world  than  Freda,  Mrs. 
Mendall.  She's  got  a  large  heart  in  her.  Ye  have 
none  too  easy  a  road  to  travel.  Freda' 11  take  ye  in 
and  never  ask  a  question.  Ye'll  be  sheltered  in  her 
house." 

MacAllister  did  not  wait  for  her  consent.  He  lifted 
her  from  the  bed,  as  he  would  a  child,  and  set  her  on 
her  feet.  He  was  afraid  of  the  dazed  look  that  had 
dawned  in  her  eyes,  and  yet  he  must  hurry  her,  for 
there  was  need  of  all  the  haste  he  could  make.  "Just 
hold  to  that  courage  of  yours,"  he  said  reassuringly. 
"Ye've  got  good  friends  in  Laclasse,  Mrs.  Mendall. 
I'm  one  of  them.  We'll  see  ye  through,  never  fear. 
Just  do  as  I  tell  ye,  now." 

An  hour  later,  while  Freda  O'Rourke  helped  to  the 
room  that  was  to  have  been  Marie's  the  white-faced, 
steady-eyed  woman  MacAllister  had  brought  in  to  her 
out  of  the  darkness,  MacAllister  walked  the  floor  and 
waited. 


382  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

His  instructions  to  Freda  had  been  of  the  briefest : 
"Take  her  up  and  tell  her  yer  house  shall  be  her  home. 
Ye  know  ye  can  trust  me.  Do  just  that,  and  then  come 
back  quickly  to  me — I've  things  to  tell  ye." 

Freda  had  done  what  he  asked  without  a  question. 
One  look  at  his  face  had  told  her  that  here  was  some 
tragedy  she  could  not  fathom.  When  she  came  down, 
her  eyes  asked  what  her  lips  feared  to  formulate. 

MacAllister  told  her  in  the  briefest  sentences  at  his 
command. 

Freda  was  aghast.  "What  will  you  do?"  she  asked, 
too  much  overwhelmed  for  the  moment  for  anything 
but  an  involuntary  question. 

"Follow  them — by  the  first  train  I  can  get." 

The  hot  color  in  Freda's  cheeks  deepened,  lighting 
her  eyes.  "Poor  Marie — "  she  said,  more  to  herself 
than  to  MacAllister.  Then  more  clearly:  "And  that 
poor  thing  up-stairs,  Alex — ?" 

"Just  ye  keep  her  to  the  courage  she  says  she  has, 
Freda.  I've  told  her  I  was  going,  and  I  gave  her  my 
promise  I'd  not  mishandle  her  husband,  and  I'll  try  to 
remember  it.  He  may  go  to  hell!  The  cur!  He'll 
not  hold  Marie  a  moment — once  I  set  eyes  on  her!" 
The  fiery  heat  of  primitive  rage  and  jealousy  had 
caught  him  and  swept  him  again.  It  was  strangled 
in  turn  by  the  cold  hand  of  Fear.  "I  want  to  get  to 
her  so  quick  as  I  can,"  he  added  thickly.  "There's 
no  telling  what  she'll  do  when  she  comes  to  herself. 
.  .  .  Freda,  we've  agreed,  Mrs.  Mendall  and  I, 
that  no  one  shall  know  of  all  this.    I  mean  to  act  care- 


A    RACE    WITH    THE   WIND  383 

fully.  The  first  train  I  can  get  is  in  the  morning,  but 
there're  things  I  can  do  to-night.  I'll  send  a  night 
letter  to  the  people  who  traced  that  man  Mortola  for 
me.  They'll  be  watched  for  in  New  York.  I've  my 
plan  well  in  mind;  God  knows  I've  had  time  enough 
to  plan,  riding  over  those  fearful  miles."  He  ended 
with  some  degree  of  calmness. 

It  was  evident  to  Freda  that  his  executive  brain  was 
working  swiftly  and  accurately,  and  she  knew  that 
his  planning  rarely  miscarried.  But  it  was  of  some- 
thing else  she  was  thinking  while  he  talked.  She 
realized  that,  in  spite  of  his  fear  and  his  genuine  re- 
gret and  his  revulsion  of  feeling  toward  Marie,  it  was 
passion  still  that  was  driving  him,  a  commingling  of 
jealousy  and  desire.  And  Freda  also  knew  that,  how- 
ever much  he  might  regret  his  part  in  Marie's  tragedy, 
his  judgment  of  her  wild  act  would  be  the  same. 
He  had  generations  of  men  behind  him  who  had 
thought  and  felt  just  as  he  did  about  the  missteps 
women  made.  Marie  had  set  the  seal  upon  his  lack 
of  trust;  proved  her  weakness;  definitely  placed  her- 
self beyond  the  pale.  The  test  would  come  when  he 
had  taken  Marie  from  Mendall.  He  would  be  taking 
her  from  another  man,  a  woman  whom  in  his  heart 
he  did  not  respect  and  yet  whom  he  desired — and  a 
woman  who  loved  him  in  primitive  fashion.  The 
greatest  danger  to  them  both  lay  in  that  last  fact. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Alex,  be  really  kind 
to  her  when  you  find  her,"  she  begged.  "You  meant 
to  punish  her.    You  have  been  a  little  hard." 


384  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

MacAllister  looked  down  at  her  hand.  "I  know," 
he  said,  and  his  face  twisted  in  pain.  "I  drove  her  to 
it,  and  God  only  knows  what  will  come  of  it  all." 

But  Freda  had  only  been  leading  up  to  what  she 
meant  to  say.  "Yes,  you  did,  Alex.  So  be  your  best 
self  to  her — when  you  take  her  away  from  him.  It 
may  be  in  your  power  to — to  hinder  her,  not  help  her. 
Remember  that  she  will  be  a  woman  with  every  defense 
down." 

MacAllister  looked  up  quickly,  met  her  eyes  fairly. 
"Is  that  yer  opinion  of  me?"  he  asked  hotly. 

"No.  It  is  to  her  I  would  give  the  warning,  not 
to  you — if  I  could  reach  her.  .  .  .  It  is  their  feel- 
ing that  there  is  no  genuine  forgiveness  for  them  in 
the  heart  of  any  man — or  woman — that  has  determined 
the  future  of  most  women  who  have  done  what  Marie 
has  done,  Alex." 

MacAllister  turned  away.  "That's  true  enough," 
he  said,  a  little  indistinctly.  "I'll  remember  what  ye've 
said,  Freda.  ...  If  only  I  could  reach  her  this 
minute — " 

Then  he  left  her. 


LVI 


SUSPENSE 

IN  the  days  that  followed  MacAllister  learned  the 
meaning  of  suspense. 

He  learned  that  every  detective  force,  however  ca- 
pable, moves  slowly ;  that  there  are  times  when  money 
can  not  buy  haste;  that  America  is  a  wide  country, 
and  that  even  the  telegraph  and  the  telephone  are  but 
partial  assistants;  that  sifting  New  York's  five  millions 
in  search  of  two  strays  is  a  monumental  undertaking. 

MacAllister's  journey  had  consumed  nearly  three 
days.  And  there  had  been  no  relief  awaiting  him 
when  he  reached  New  York.  The  arriving  through 
trains  had  been  watched ;  they  had  not  brought  Men- 
dall  and  Marie.  The  subsequent  trains  did  not  bring 
them.  But  there  were  innumerable  roundabout  ways 
by  which  they  might  have  come.  The  keen-eyed  men 
MacAllister  consulted  made  various  suggestions, 
among  others  that  Mendall's  letter  to  his  wife  might 
have  been  merely  a  blind;  that  Mendall  might  have 
gone  west  or  south  or  north;  that  he  might  have 
buried  himself  and  Marie  in  Chicago;  that  he  might 
have  stopped  anywhere  on  the  way;  that  their  search 

385 


386  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

ought  to  begin  in  Laclasse,  that  one  of  their  most  re- 
liable men  ought  to  be  sent  to  Laclasse,  while  they 
searched  New  York. 

MacAllister  agreed  to  the  last  suggestion,  for  he 
shrank  from  entrusting  the  facts  to  any  one  in  La- 
classe. It  meant  an  expenditure  of  three  additional 
days,  but  his  horror  of  what  publicity  would  mean, 
counseled  caution. 

While  stretching  a  long  arm  to  Laclasse,  MacAllister 
remained  in  New  York,  for  he  was  not  to  be  urged 
out  of  the  conviction  that  Mendall  had  brought  Marie 
to  New  York,  and  that  his  first  concern  would  be  to 
secure  a  cheap  studio  in  the  artists'  quarter.  So  Mac- 
Allister walked  the  hot  streets  with  his  anxiety,  circled 
around  and  about  and  through  Washington  Square, 
Greenwich  Village,  Irving  Place  and  Gramercy  Park. 
The  hotels  and  the  area  about  Carnegie  Hall  he  left 
to  the  men  he  employed.  In  order  to  avoid  people 
he  knew,  he  took  care  not  to  show  himself  at  the  large 
hotels  or  on  Wall  Street.  He  purposely  chose  the  Bre- 
voort  as  his  stopping  place  and  haunted  the  Italian 
restaurants  of  the  neighborhood. 

For  five  nights  MacAllister  shared  the  close  air  of 
Washington  Square  with  hundreds  of  sweltering  Ital- 
ians, for,  except  when  exhausted,  he  was  too  restless 
to  sleep.  He  could  not  plan  for  the  future ;  the  strain 
and  uncertainty  of  the  present  were  too  much  for  him. 
When  he  tried  to  think  of  the  future  it  became  either 
a  jumble  or  a  blank.  Sometimes  the  vision  of  Marie 
with  Mendall  drove  him  almost  mad;  more  often  he 


SUSPENSE  387. 

was  obsessed  by  fear,  frozen  by  it.  If  only  he  could 
find  her! 

So  for  five  days — a  year  of  blazing  July  days,  it 
seemed  to  him — MacAllister  climbed  stairs  to  inspect 
studios  he  did  not  want,  interviewed  smudgy  janitors, 
sad- faced  landladies,  and  brainless  guardians  of  un- 
happy looking  telephone  exchanges.  He  knew  that 
those  he  employed  were  doing  the  same  thing,  but 
to  sit  still  and  wait  was  beyond  him.  He  had,  at  least, 
the  comfort  of  entering  each  place  with  hope. 

On  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day,  a  brief  telegram 
brought  him  the  first  word:  Carl  Mendall  had  been 
seen  in  St.  Louis — that  particulars  would  follow  later. 
There  was  nothing  about  MendalFs  traveling  compan^ 
ion,  but  where  Mendall  was,  Marie  was — unless  ? 

It  was  that  ever  present  fear  that  drove  MacAllister 
out  to  walk,  as  usual,  around  and  across  Washington 
Square,  and,  as  usual,  he  scanned  the  houses,  old  res- 
idences most  of  them,  that  had  been  converted  into 
studios.  They  were  among  the  first  places  he  had  vis- 
ited, and  upon  which  he  had  kept  constant  watch.  A 
dozen  times  he  had  paused  to  watch,  and  as  many 
times  had  followed  some  erect  youthful  man  who  had 
crossed  his  vision,  but  who  was  too  far  away  for  recog- 
nition. Some  clean-limbed  Italian,  he  had  usually  dis- 
covered him  to  be. 

This  morning,  from  the  middle  of  the  Square,  he 
saw  striding  along  Fourth  Street  a  man  who  instantly 
riveted  his  attention,  a  young  man  with  a  parcel  under 
his  arm.     He  ran  up  the  steps  of  one  of  the  oldest 


388  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

studio  buildings  in  the  Square,  paused  for  a  backward 
glance,  then  went  in.  MacAllister  was  keen-sighted; 
he  thought  he  could  not  be  mistaken. 

The  sudden  lift  of  MacAllister's  heart  brought  the 
blood  into  his  face ;  then  like  a  hound  that  has  sighted 
its  quarry,  he  was  off.  The  doors  of  the  house  stood 
open,  and  he  plunged  in  upon  a  man  who  was  whistling 
softly  as  he  mopped  the  broken  tiling  of  the  hall. 

"Who  just  came  in?"  MacAllister  demanded. 

The  man  stopped  whistling  and  stared  at  him.  He 
was  accustomed  to  invasions  of  all  sorts,  but  there  was 
that  about  MacAllister  that  startled  him. 

"What  do  you  want  of  him?"  he  retorted. 

MacAllister  did  not  stop  to  parley.  At  the  sight  of 
the  bill  MacAllister  held  out  to  him  the  man  dropped 
his  mop  and  touched  his  forehead.  "He's  a  sublet,  sir. 
Came  in  yesterday.  Mr.  McDonald's  studio — if  you'll 
wait  a  minute  I'll  ask  the  janitress." 

But  MacAllister  was  already  on  the  stairs.  "It's 
the  top  floor  back — "  the  man  called  after  him. 

MacAllister  knew  what  he  meant  by  "a  sublet." 
Every  studio  on  the  Square  appeared  to  be  for  rent 
for  the  summer  months.  He  went  up  three  flights  of 
stairs  into  a  dim  hall.  He  knew  his  way  about;  he 
had  been  in  the  house  before,  so  he  went  directly  to 
the  door  bearing  the  plate, 

ernest  Mcdonald 

Because  his  breath  failed  him,  MacAllister  waited 
for  a  few  moments;  he  had  run  through  the  Square 


SUSPENSE  389 

and  up  three  long  flights  of  stairs.  As  he  waited  he 
heard  movements  within,  some  article,  an  easel  prob- 
ably, drawn  across  the  floor. 

Then  he  knocked,  and  a  voice  he  knew  called, 
"Come  in!" 

MacAllister  walked  in  under  a  skylight  that  made 
the  bareness  of  the  room  glaring.  In  the  center  of 
the  room,  before  a  newly  stretched  canvas,  coat  and 
collar  removed,  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up,  and  with  paints 
and  palette  at  his  knee,  sat  Mendall;  a  little  pale  and 
pinched,  and  moist  about  the  brow  from  the  stifling 
heat. 

For  a  mere  second  MacAllister  looked  into  Men- 
dall's  face,  and  then  his  eyes  traveled  over  the  room, 
the  gray  walls  of  great  height,  the  wide  divan  that 
was  a  bed,  a  clutter  of  painting  paraphernalia,  a  table 
bearing  the  remains  of  a  meager  breakfast — but  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  woman  he  sought. 

His  eyes  came  back  to  Mendall,  the  look  of  a  fight- 
ing man  with  desperate  urgency  behind  his  anger. 
"Where's  Marie?" 

Mendall  had  sprung  up,  and  his  answer  was  flung 
at  MacAllister  from  beneath  brows  that  had  lowered 
into  a  straight  line.    "With  you,  isn't  she?" 

MacAllister  came  close  to  him,  so  close  that  his 
clenched  fist  could  have  reached  him.  It  was  not  his 
promise  to  Mrs.  Mendall  that  restrained  him;  he  had 
forgotten  it,  as  completely  as  he  had  forgotten  many 
things.  He  might  be  able  to  beat  the  man  into  uncon- 
sciousness; he  might  even  kill  him,  but  it  was  Marie 


390  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

he  wanted,  and  he  doubted  whether  that  was  the  best 
way  of  reaching  her.  If  he  himself  had  taken  a 
woman  and  meant  to  keep  her,  it  would  not  be  a 
man's  fist  that  would  stop  him. 

"I  asked  ye,  'Where  is  Marie?' "  he  demanded, 
through  his  teeth.  "Ye  took  her  out  of  Laclasse — 
where  is  she?" 

"I  did  not  take  her  from  Laclasse.  I  left  her  there. 
She  said  she  was  going  'to  some  one  who  in  spite  of 
everything'  would  receive  her.  She  meant  you,  didn't 
she?" 

Though  Mendall  faced  him  with  lip  curled  and 
brows  as  threatening  as  his  own,  there  was  a  ring  of 
sincerity  and  a  touch  of  genuine  questioning  in  his 
answer  that  halted  MacAllister.  The  man  looked  him 
too  squarely  in  the  eye. 

MacAllister  answered  involuntarily.  "Marie's  not 
with  me!  She  never  came  nigh  me — or  I'd  not  be 
here!" 

Mendall's  brows  lifted  and  his  eyes  widened,  the 
color  of  anger  wiped  from  his  face.  "But  she  wrote 
me  she  was  going  to  you — I  thought  she  meant  you! 
.    .    .    Where  is  she?" 

MacAllister's  face  grew  blank.  "That's  what  I  came 
to  ask  of  ye.  .  .  .  Why — man  .  .  .  are  ye  mean- 
ing to  tell  me  ye've  not  seen  her  since  that  day !  .  .  . 
There  was  no  friend  she  could  go  to — and — but  for  a 
bit  of  pocket-money,  she  had  nothing — " 

"No,  I've  not  seen  her!  Certainly  I've  not  seen 
her!"  Mendall  declared.    "I've  no  idea  where  she  is! 


SUSPENSE  391 

...  I  followed  her  because  I  was  afraid  she  would 
do  herself  a  harm.  She  didn't  know  what  she  was 
doing — what  she  wanted  was  to  get  as  far  away  from 
you  as  she  could.  For  two  years  I've  been  mad  to 
leave  Laclasse.  I  decided  then  that  we  would  go  away 
together.  She  was  too  dazed  to  know  anything — she 
only  half  recognized  me.  I  wanted  her  in  some  safe 
place  where  she  could  rest  while  I  went  in  to  the  bank 
and  got  some  money.  I  took  her  from  the  Bellevue 
car  to  the  hotel  at  the  Junction.  I  meant  her  no  harm, 
and  I  did  her  no  harm.  I  meant  she  should  be  a  free 
lance  here  just  as  I  was.  If  she  gave  me  anything  I 
meant  it  should  be  willingly.  She  cried  herself  to 
sleep.  I  left  her  asleep.  When  I  got  back  from  the 
bank  I  found  her  note.  I  thought  she  had  gone  to 
you.  ...  I  had  written  to  Margaret — I'd  made  the 
break — I  decided  I'd  go  on.  I  went  to  St.  Louis,  then 
to  John  Thane,  the  big  oil  man.  I  sold  him  a  painting 
he  liked  once,  and  I  thought  he'd  be  the  sort  to  loan 
me  some  money  to  go  on  with  if  I'd  contract  to  paint 
him  something  more  of  the  same  kind.  I  wanted 
Margaret  to  have  most  of  what  we  had  in  bank. 
Thane  did  loan  me  money,  and  then  I  came  on  here. 
.    .    .    I've  told  you  all  I  know." 

Mendall  had  jerked  out  his  explanation  through 
tight  lips,  the  same  fear  that  was  blanching  MacAllis- 
ter's  face  dawning  in  his  own. 

"What  did  she  write  ye?"  MacAllister  asked  with 
difficulty. 

Mendall  went  to  his  coat  and  brought  back  to  him 


392  THE   TIGER'S   COAX 

a  piece  of  paper  that  had  been  torn  across  and  hastily 
written  upon.    MacAllister  read  it  aloud,  tonelessly : 

"Sefior,  I  am  glad  I  have  waked  before  you  came. 
I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  But  for  you,  I  should 
have  become  quite  insane.  Now  I  am  very  calm.  I 
go  to  one  who  in  spite  of  everything  I  think  will  re- 
ceive me.  Sefior,  think  no  more  of  me  or  of  my  fate. 
Go  your  way  and  paint  beautifully.  That  is  your  fu- 
ture.   For  me  there  is  but  one  thing. 

"Marie." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other ;  each  looking  at 
the  fear  in  the  other's  face,  and  with  no  thought  of 
anything  else.  "It's  her  Maker  she  was  thinking 
would  receive  her,"  MacAllister  said  finally,  in  a  voice 
that  had  lost  modulation.  "If  it  should  be  so — "  He 
gave  Mendall  the  note,  mechanically,  and  turned  to 
go.  "I'll  be  searching  still,  but  with  only  fear  of  what 
I'll  find,"  he  added  in  the  same  even  way,  quite  as  he 
would  have  spoken  to  the  empty  room. 

"I  meant  her  no  harm,"  Mendall  said  in  a  low  voice. 
•  His  half  whisper  reached  MacAllister,  recalling  his 
presence  to  him.  He  paused  at  the  door.  "Ye'll  be 
staying  here,  I  suppose,"  he  said  indifferently.  "I'm 
going  back  to  Laclasse.  Yer  wife's  with  Freda 
O'Rourke — have  ye  any  word  to  send  her?" 

"No.  I  wrote  her  yesterday — everything.  She's 
better  off  where  she  is."  Mendall  drew  a  long  breath, 
shook  himself  and  took  up  his  palette.  "No  matter 
what  comes — I've  got  to  paint." 


LVII 

WHAT  DID  HE  MEAN  TO  DO? 

THREE  days  later,  a  little  after  the  noon  hour, 
MacAllister  came  up  the  steps  of  the  O'Rourke 
house  and  into  the  hall,  pausing  at  the  dining-room 
door  to  speak  to  the  waitress. 

"Tell  Miss  Freda  I'm  here,  Celia — that  I  want  to 
see  her." 

Celia  had  known  MacAllister  for  several  years ;  she 
had  never  seen  him  look  like  this.  "Have  you  been 
sick,  sir?"  she  asked  with  concern. 

"No,  only  tired  from  the  journey,"  MacAllister  said 
heavily.  "Just  ye  tell  Miss  Freda  I  want  a  word  with 
her  before  I  go  over  to  the  office." 

MacAllister  crossed  to  the  library  and  put  down  his 
traveling  bag.  He  had  come  directly  from  the  sta- 
tion, and  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  train  still  hung 
about  him,  making  him  look  even  more  haggard.  The 
lines  of  his  body,  the  droop  of  his  usually  erect  shoul- 
ders, suggested  both  illness  and  hopelessness. 

He  did  not  straighten,  even  when  Freda  came  in. 
He  looked  at  her  eager  face  from  beneath  brows  that 
appeared  to  be  weighted  with  the  same  burden  that 

393 


394  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

bent  his  shoulders.  "Weel,  Freda,  I'm  back,"  he  said. 
"Ye  had  my  telegram  telling  ye  I'd  seen  Mendall.  I 
suppose  ye've  no  word  for  me?" 

Freda's  quick  eyes  had  swept  him  for  a  moment 
without  comprehending.  Then  she  understood,  almost 
to  the  point  of  tears.  "Alex!  You  didn't  get  my 
telegram !    I  sent  it  yesterday." 

"No,  I've  had  no  telegram  .  .  .  Freda !  Yer  not 
telling  me  that — ?" 

"Of  course  I'm  telling  you — just  that!"  Freda  ex- 
claimed. "Oh,  Alex !  And  you  have  been  these  three 
days  without  knowing!  .  .  .  Marie  is  safe,  dear. 
She  has  come  to  no  harm." 

The  crimson  flood  of  relief  that  blinded  MacAllister 
and  set  him  to  groping  for  a  chair  frightened  Freda. 
Any  one  who  has  seen  a  strong  man  stricken  into  help- 
lessness, big  hands  grown  suddenly  shaking  and  uncer- 
tain, powerful  body  tottering,  never  loses  the  terror  of 
it.  It  had  been  so  with  her  father.  Freda's  arms  went 
about  MacAllister  as  he  sat  breathing  heavily. 

"Alex—" 

"'Twas — a  bit — too  much  for  me — "  MacAllister 
gasped.  Then  more  steadily:  "Eh,  I've  frightened 
ye,  Freda.  .  .  .  It's  nothing — just  the  relief  of  it. 
Where  is  she  ?" 

But  Freda  had  gone  for  iced  water. 

When  she  came  back  MacAllister  was  standing  up. 
"I'm  all  right,"  he  declared,  in  answer  to  her  fright 
and  urgency.  "Ye  need  that  a  deal  more  than  I  do 
— ye're  as  white  as  paper.    .    .   .   It's  just  as  well  I've 


WHAT    DID   HE    MEAN   TO   DO?      395 

learned  that  it's  apoplexy  will  carry  me  off — I'll  be 
guarded  against  too  much  joy." 

There  was  nothing  that  could  have  cured  Freda's 
fright  more  quickly  than  MacAllister's  return  to  dry 
speech.  The  touch  of  shame  at  his  own  unexpected 
weakness  was  also  wholesome.  She  was  instantly  her 
usual  well-controlled  self. 

She  smiled  at  him.  "I  wish  you  might  have  been 
saved  these  three  days." 

MacAllister  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  "Per- 
haps ye'll  tell  me  now,  ye  messenger  of  relief?"  he 
begged.    "Where  is  she?" 

"Not  here — a  long  way  from  here — in  Southern 
California — but  no  harm  has  come  to  her.  .  .  .  She 
went  to  Clare  Bagsby  for  help,  Alex.  Clare  told  me 
yesterday.  It  seems  the  girls  are  friends.  Marie  told 
Clare  her  whole  history — except  her  experience  with 
Carl  Mendall.  Clare  kept  her  for  the  night,  and  in 
the  morning  Marie  left  for  Los  Angeles.  Clare  gave 
her  a  little  money.  She  asked  Clare  to  tell  you  where 
she  had  gone,  but  to  make  it  clear  to  you  that  she  did 
not  want  to  see  you  and  would  take  nothing  from  you. 
She  said  to  Clare,  'Everything  is  ended  between  Mon- 
sieur MacAllister  and  me.  And  it  is  best  that  it  should 
be  so.'  Clare  said  Marie  looked  like  death  when  she 
came  to  her ;  that  she  was  the  saddest  and  the  calmest 
woman  she  had  ever  seen,  and  that  the  only  real  emo- 
tion she  showed  was  when  she  spoke  of  you;  that  the 
only  thing  that  seemed  really  to  matter  to  her  was  the 
fact  that  she  had  deceived  you.     The  tears  came  in 


396  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

Clare's  eyes  as  she  talked  of  Marie.  She  said  Marie 
seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  indifferent  confidence  that  she 
would  find  employment.  She  couldn't  persuade  Marie  to 
stay  here.  She  told  Clare  quite  frankly  that  she  did  not 
want  to  live,  but  she  intended  to  go  on  because  there 
was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do.  That  her  religion 
forbade  her  doing  any  such  wild  thing  as  you  have 
feared.  Clare  said  the  impression  Marie  made  on  her 
was  that  of  utter  desolation,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
steady  going  on  with  life.  .  .  .  After  Marie  had 
gone,  Clare  tried  to  see  you,  but  was  told  that  you  had 
gone  east  on  business.  If  Mr.  Bagsby  had  been  here, 
things  might  have  moved  more  quickly.  But  he  was 
in  Lincoln.  Clare  told  him  when  he  came  back.  They 
waited  a  day,  and  then  Clare  came  to  me.  Then  I 
telegraphed  you." 

MacAllister  said  nothing  when  she  had  finished.  He 
had  taken  his  hands  from  her  shoulders  and  stood 
now,  looking  down  at  the  floor.  The  color  relief  had 
brought  to  his  face  had  faded;  he  looked  haggard 
again.  Freda  looked  at  him  in  her  quietly  observant 
way,  the  tenderness  in  her  astir.  If  Marie  had  suf- 
fered, so  had  he.  He  would  carry  the  marks  of  it  with 
him  always ;  the  lines  about  his  mouth  were  deeper,  his 
brows  more  pent. 

She  touched  his  arm  caressingly.  "It's  short  in  the 
telling,  but  long  when  measured  by  feeling,  isn't  it, 
Alex?" 

He  nodded.  "Has  there  been  any  word  from  her 
since  she  went?"  he  asked  with  an  effort. 


WHAT   DID   HE   MEAN   TO   DO?      397 

"Yes,  Clare  has  heard.  Marie  seems  to  think  that 
some  motion-picture  company  will  employ  her/' 

"That's  been  in  her  mind  for  some  time."  Mac- 
Allister  was  thinking  of  the  evening  on  Twin  Oaks 
Hill,  when  Marie  had  said,  "There  is  only  one  thing  I 
can  do  well — I  can  act."  He  remembered  with  pe- 
culiar distinctness  her  twisting,  tortured  hands. 

He  straightened,  with  a  caught  breath.'  "How  did 
she  write,  Freda?" 

"Clare  left  the  letter.    Would  you  like  to  see  it?" 

"Yes.    It  may  tell  me  the  thing  I  want  to  know." 

Freda  brought  it  to  him. 

"Dear  Mademoiselle  Clare,"  Marie  wrote.  "I  have 
secured  a  stopping  place  at  the  above  address.  The 
journey  I  do  not  remember,  only  that  we  passed 
through  much  bare  land  that  was  hot.  This  country 
is  also  desert,  except  where  man  has  made  it  green. 
It  is  perhaps  a  pleasant  country — I  do  not  know. 

"For  three  days  after  I  secured  this  room  I  could 
only  lie  still,  but  yesterday  I  went  to  the  studios  of  one 
of  the  large  motion-picture  companies.  Nothing  may 
come  of  it,  I  will  probably  have  to  go  day  after  day 
and  wait  about  for  a  chance  to  be  called  upon,  but  if 
I  am  called  upon  to  take  some  part  the  experience  I 
have  already  had  will  be  helpful.  I  may  interest  the 
director,  and  he  may  then  give  me  another  opportu- 
nity. I  am  quite  accustomed  to  the  ways  of  these  mo- 
tion-picture people — I  understand  their  methods  and 
how  best  to  please  them,  and  that  is  a  great  advantage. 
My  room  costs  me  very  little  and  I  care  very  little 
about  food,  so  I  can  afford  to  wait.  Sometimes  it  is 
to  those  who  do  not  care  in  the  least  that  success 


398  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

comes.  Perhaps  it  will  be  so  with  me.  Perhaps  in 
time  I  shall  wish  to  succeed. 

"Mademoiselle  Clare,  I  can  not  write  much,  but  one 
thing  I  wish  to  say  from  my  heart — I  thank  you  for 
your  great  kindness.  Merely  my  money  debt  I  will 
repay,  but  your  heart  of  kindness  I  wish  always  to 
keep.  Do  you  remember  we  talked  once  of  women? 
I  said  that  women  were  not  friends  to  one  another  and 
that  they  would  never  be?  I  have  changed  my  way  of 
thinking,  and  because  of  you.  I  have  changed  my  way 
of  thinking  about  so  very  many  things. 

"One  comfort  I  have  had,  Mademoiselle  Clare. 
To-day  I  have  gone  to  confessional — the  first  time 
in  many,  many  months.  I  dared  not  go  when  I  was 
living  a  lie,  and  it  made  me  wretched.  How  could  I 
have  done  what  I  did?  Lie  and  steal.  Was  it  the 
Indian  in  me  that  made  it  possible?  Or  is  it  always 
possible  to  the  woman  who  loves  like  a  primitive  thing 
— who  has  just  the  immense  wish  to  possess.  Only  by 
steady  trying  can  I  make  something  better  of  myself 
than  the  yellow  thing  I  have  been.  I  am  like  one  who 
has  been  through  death,  who  has  drowned  and  only 
after  long  struggling  with  unconsciousness  has  been 
brought  back  to  life.  These  last  ten  days  seem  a  hun- 
dred years  in  which  I  have  thought  and  thought.  I 
know  now  what  love  should  be — not  the  faulty  thing 
I  felt,  nor  the  imperfect  thing  which  was  offered  me, 
the  sort  of  love  that  can  be  angry  and  cruel  and  bitter. 

"I  shall  go  on  and  do  my  best,  Mademoiselle  Clare. 
I  shall  write  again.  I  say  good-by  now,  with  love  for 
the  woman  who  is  kind.  "Marie. 

"P.  S.  I  call  myself  Maria  de  la  Guarda  here.  Un- 
der that  name  I  had  some  stage  experience,  and  it  is 
best  that  I  be  known  by  that  name." 


WHAT    DID    HE    MEAN    TO    DO?      399 

MacAllister  had  sat  down  to  read  the  letter,  and 
after  he  had  finished  it  he  continued  to  sit  with  it  in 
his  hand,  thinking,  seeing  some  vision  of  the  past — or 
of  the  future. 

Freda  watched  his  reverie,  wondering  which  it  was  ? 
What  did  he  mean  to  do?  What  had  the  last  two 
weeks  done  to  him?  Melted  anger,  certainly,  but  had 
his  love  grown  or  had  it  lessened  ?  Did  he  mean  to  seek 
Marie,  or  not?  .  .  .  The  answer  to  these  questions 
meant  a  good  deal  to  Freda  O'Rourke,  but  they  were 
not  questions  she  would  ask  of  him.  One  reason  for 
their  fast  friendship  was  because  she  had  never  claimed 
a  confidence. 

MacAllister  put  the  letter  down,  finally,  and  turned 
to  her.  "How  is  Mrs.  Mendall?"  he  asked,  more  in 
his  usual  manner. 

Freda  smiled.  "You  didn't  know  you  were  bring- 
ing me  help  when  you  brought  her  to  me?" 

"A  sad  burden,  I  thought — most  of  the  things  I 
bring  ye  are  burdens."  MacAllister  was  thinking  of 
society's  attitude  to  her,  the  thing  that  always  out- 
raged him. 

"I  don't  find  them  so.  Mrs.  Mendall  certainly  is 
not.  She's  rather  wonderful,  Alex.  It  took  her  just 
twenty-four  hours  to  decide  about  me — to  shake  her- 
self free  of  prejudice.  Then  she  came  to  me.  She 
told  me  that  she  meant  to  make  a  life  for  herself. 
That  she  would  never  take  her  husband  back,  and  not 
because  she  could  not  forgive  him,  but  because  theirs 
could  never  be  the  right  sort  of  marriage;  that  theirs 


400  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

had  never  been  what  marriage  should  be,  and  that 
with  his  nature  and  hers  it  never  could  be.  She  be- 
lieves in  his  genius,  that  in  time  he  will  be  a  great  art- 
ist, but  that  is  the  only  faith  she  has  in  him.  She  told 
me  that  she  meant  to  be  one  of  the  best-trained  office 
women  in  Laclasse.  That  for  a  year — that  is  for  as 
much  of  the  year  as  she  is  able — she  wants  to  go  on 
with  her  training.  She  told  me  all  her  plans  and  her 
difficulties,  and  then  she  asked  me,  quite  simply  and 
sensibly,  whether  I  did  not  need  help  in  running  this 
house,  and  with  a  timid  audacity  that  took  my  heart 
offered  her  hands  and  brains  to  me.  You  know,  Alex, 
what  my  trouble  has  always  been — getting  any  sort  of 
intelligent  assistance  in  running  this  house.  I  haven't 
even  sister's  help;  she  has  to  look  after  father.  .  .  . 
It  went  to  my  heart,  that  calm  sensibleness  of  hers — a 
deal  more  directly  than  tragic  tears.  The  tears  were 
there,  of  course,  but  so  well  restrained.  We  emerged 
from  that  conference  fast  friends — we're  bound  to- 
gether in  one  cause.  You  can  help  when  the  office 
period  arrives,  but  meantime  she  is  my  partner." 
Freda  ended  as  she  had  begun,  smilingly,  but  there 
was  an  undercurrent  of  deep  feeling  stirring  her. 

"And  I  suppose  none  of  all  this  was  yer  suggestion," 
MacAllister  remarked  with  affectionate  sarcasm. 

"No.  I  simply  took  her  in  my  arms — when  I  heard 
the  reason  for  all  that  stiff-lipped  courage  of  hers. 
.  .  .  There  is  a  baby  coming  in  about  seven  months, 
Alex." 

"Freda!"    MacAllister's  face  grew  black. 


WHAT    DID    HE    MEAN    TO   DO?      401 

"Her  husband  didn't  know!"  Freda  said  quickly. 
"Keeping  her  own  counsel  appears  to  have  been  her 
habit.  That's  the  sort  of  marriage  theirs  was,  no 
sharing  of  confidence.  She  told  me,  Alex,  that  she 
was  just  going  to  tell  him,  the  words  were  on  her  lips, 
when  Marie  came  down  the  stairs,  walking  out  into 
her  future,  and  changed  their  destinies." 

"The  poor  little  woman — "  MacAllister  said. 

"I  said  the  same  thing — internally — for  the  space 
of  a  minute.  Then  I  came  to  my  senses.  Why,  Alex, 
it's  her  salvation !  She'll  have  a  child  to  work  for  and 
care  for  and  plan  for.  She's  more  mother  than  any- 
thing else.  With  her  baby  in  her  arms  she'll  be  a  thou- 
sand times  more  happy  than  she  has  ever  been — and 
more  lovable.  And  what  it  has  done  for  her  already ! 
She  has  swept  her  mind  clear  of  all  the  ugly  things, 
anger  and  hatred  and  jealousy.  A  rather  narrow- 
minded  little  New  England  woman  growing  into  a 
wonder,  and  all  because  she  is  building  a  life  that  must 
not  be  marred.  I  like  to  see  a  woman  prove  herself 
as  she  is  doing !"  Freda  was  flushed  and  eager,  beau- 
tiful  in  her  earnestness. 

MacAllister  looked  at  her  a  little  curiously,  appre- 
ciative of  her  beauty — there  was  the  beauty-loving 
man's  admiration  in  his  eyes — and  something  else, 
something  more  profound.  "I  believe  that's  what  ye 
are,  Freda — a  lovable  woman  with  motherhood  the 
biggest  thing  in  ye."  It  was  one  of  his  occasional 
flashes  of  intuition.  Could  any  man  ask  more  of  life 
than  the  devotion  of  such  a  woman? 


402  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

Freda  flushed  even  more  warmly.  "It's  in  every 
one  of  us,  Alex — deep  down — though  too  often  it's 
covered  up  by  a  wrong  rearing  and  an  unfortunate 
environment:  Those  two  girls,  Clare  and  Marie,  in 
the  night  they  spent  together,  talked  of  this  very  thing. 
Clare  told  me  all  about  it.  She  told  Marie  that  she 
meant  to  marry  Ellis  at  Christmas  and  help  him  to 
make  a  man  of  himself,  and  Marie  said,  T  am  glad. 
Then  in  time  there  will  be  a  little  child  to  draw  you 
both  closer  together.  And  you  will  know  that  both 
you  and  he  will  be  giving  that  child  a  good  inheritance. 
I  have  thought  much  about  my  inheritance,  Mademoi- 
selle Clare,  and,  though  I  have  hated  my  Indian  blood 
because  of  the  doubts  others  have  cast  upon  it,  in  my 
heart  I  do  not  feel  that  I  should  be  giving  a  child  a 
bad  inheritance.  My  mother  was  truthful,  faithful 
and  gentle.  And,  in  spite  of  what  I  have  done,  I  have 
a  moral  sense.  It  was  those  fearful  three  years  of 
struggle  in  Paris  with  every  man's  hand  against  me 
that  pushed  me  into  deceit,  and  then  a  wild  love  for  a 
man  that  held  me  to  it.  It  is  a  little  comfort  to  feel 
in  my  own  heart  that,  in  spite  of  everything,  I  would 
be  mother  to  a  good  child.  That  I  am  not  accursed, 
as  I  have  sometimes  thought  when  in  misery.  But  why 
do  I  talk  of  all  this!  Marriage  and  a  child  are  not 
for  me — prejudice  and  prejudgment  will  always  be 
against  me.  I  can  do  only  the  best  that  I  can  with 
my  life.'  " 

Though  he  flushed  deeply,  MacAllister  said  noth- 
ing, and,  in  spite  of  the  hurt  it  gave  her,  because  of 


WHAT   DID   HE    MEAN   TO   DO?      403 

the  honesty  that  was  Freda's  first  law,  she  continued 
decidedly:  "I  agree  with  Marie.  I  have  never  been 
afraid  of  her  inheritance.  I  believe  it  would  do  a 
child  no  harm — good,  rather.  And  I  believe,  Alex, 
that  Marie  will  be  successful  in  anything  she  under- 
takes^— that's  your  blood  in  her.  Her  Spanish  strain 
will  make  her  a  successful  actress — if  that  is  to  be  her 
future — and  an  alluring  woman  she  will  be  to  the  end 
of  her  days.  But  it  is  the  primitive  in  her  that  would 
make  her  a  glorious  wife  and  a  very  perfect  mother." 

The  blood  was  still  hot  in  MacAllister's  cheeks. 
"Ye  think  the  Indian  is  strong  in  her,  then,  Freda?" 

"Strongest  of  all,"  Freda  said  decidedly.  "It's  her 
Indian  blood  will  make  her  faithful,  patient,  loving 
and  self-sacrificing.  It  was  the  Indian  girl  whom  you 
captured  and  who"  captured  you,  Alex.  The  time  will 
come  when  you  will  bless  that  golden  streak  of  hers." 

"Eh!"  MacAllister  said  with  a  caught  breath.  "Per- 
haps—" 

He  got  up  abruptly  and  lifted  his  bag,  then  put  it 
down  again  and  came  back  to  Freda.  He  took  both 
her  hands  and  kissed  them.  "There's  one  thing  I've 
learned  in  all  this,"  he  said  deeply,  "and  that  is,  that 
ye  are  the  truest  and  the  finest  thing  God  ever  made, 
Freda.  However  lovable,  there's  no  woman  living 
can  touch  ye."    Then  he  went  out  quickly. 

He  had  told  her  nothing;  well  as  Freda  knew  him, 
she  could  not  tell  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  But 
he  had  given  her  something,  a  tribute  that  circled  her 
heart  with  warmth. 


LVIII 


THE  SHOW  CITY 


IT  was  to  Marie  that  MacAllister  carried  what  was 
passing  in  his  mind;  across  the  great  plains, 
"through  much  bare  land  that  was  hot,"  into  the  coun- 
try which  "is  also  desert,  except  where  man  has  made 
it  green,"  to  Los  Angeles,  bone-dry  and  glaring  white 
under  the  August  sun. 

MacAllister  knew  Southern  California  well;  he  had 
been  in  Los  Angeles  many  times.  He  secured  an  auto- 
mobile and  drove  out  through  the  suburb  that  nestles 
against  barren  hills,  to  the  pepper-tree-shaded  bunga- 
low in  which  Marie  had  "secured  a  stopping  place." 
It  was  a  small  box-like  cottage  dignified  by  the  title 
of  bungalow  in  which  Marie  had  secured  a  room,  and 
the  woman  whom  MacAllister  interviewed  was  evi- 
dently the  wife  of  a  laborer.  It  was  a  poor  place  which 
the  sunny  climate  alone  made  livable. 

"Maria  de  la  Guarda's  at  the  studios,"  the  woman 
told  MacAllister. 

"Have  they  given  her  work  yet  ?"  MacAllister  asked 
quickly. 

"Not  till  yesterday,"  the  woman  said.  "She's  been 
going  out  to  the  studios  regular,  though.     Yesterday 

404 


THE   SHOW   CITY  405 

they  gave  her  a  chance,  and  she  said  she  expected  to 
play  to-day,  too." 

MacAllister  inquired  his  way,  then  drove,  as  di- 
rected, up  through  winding  canyons  to  the  mimic  city 
in  the  hills,  the  immense  work-shop  and  show-place  as 
well,  of  motion-picture  production. 

There  they  told  him:  "Maria  de  la  Guarda?  Yep. 
She's  out  on  a  location  to-day." 

"Where?"  MacAllister  asked. 

"Sycamore  Canyon — five  miles  up  in  the  hills." 

He  asked  whether  he  could  go  there  in  his  auto- 
mobile. 

Oh,  yes — but  it  was  after  four  o'clock;  the  "bunch" 
would  be  on  their  way  back  before  he  got  there. 
They'd  be  "turning  in"  by  six  o'clock. 

Was  Maria  de  la  Guarda  certain  to  return  to  the 
studios  before  going  home? 

"Sure  thing." 

MacAllister  turned  from  the  office  with  an  hour  of 
suspense  on  his  hands.  He  spent  it  walking  about  the 
little  city  of  stage  properties,  looking  with  interest  at 
the  long  structures  erected  for  the  making  of  stage 
scenery  and  the  housing  of  stage  paraphernalia;  at  the 
series  of  open-air  stages,  or,  rather,  photographer's 
devices,  divided  by  screens  and  roofed  only  by  adjust- 
able shades,  in  which  pictures  were  being  taken ;  at  the 
rows  of  bathhouse-like  dressing-rooms  into  which  the 
players  retired,  or  from  which  they  emerged;  at  the 
various  immovable  bits  of  stage  scenery  standing  stark 
and  clear  under  the  brazen  sun,  here  the  facade  of  an 


406  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

Italian  villa,  there  a  Nuremberg  street  scene,  a  street 
of  facades  set  up  like  a  row  of  paper-dolls,  and  in  the 
distance,  backed  against  the  hills,  a  medieval  gateway 
bridging  the  mouth  of  a  canyon. 

Closely  half -circled  by  dun-colored  hills  patched 
here  and  there  by  live-oaks,  the  motion-picture  city 
itself  was  a  many-acre-wide  stage,  across  which  hur- 
ried automobiles  loaded  with  players  being  taken  from 
one  set  of  stages  to  another,  and  trucks  carrying  stage 
properties  to  various  points.  In  and  about  the  stages, 
making  for  this  dressing-room  or  that,  or  strolling 
about  in  the  open  while  waiting  for  their  particular 
picture  to  be  set  up,  were  armored  knights,  modern 
soldiers,  the  sleuth  and  the  tramp;  the  business  man, 
the  silk-hatted  frock-coated  gentleman,  the  Hindu,  the 
Turk,  and  the  white-gloved  butler;  ladies  alluringly 
clad,  the  .debutante,  the  houri,  the  washerwoman,  the 
child  of  the  slums,  the  baby  in  arms,  the  stage  dog,  and 
hardest  working  of  all,  the  director  and  the  attentive 
operator.  It  was  an  immense  open-air  stage  back- 
grounded by  hills  and  glared  upon  by  the  sun,  and  a 
busy  work-shop  that  sent  its  wares  to  the  farthest 
corners  of  the  earth — even  into  heathendom. 

So  this  was  the  life  into  which  Marie  had  stepped; 
into  which  he  had  driven  her!  MacAllister  was  im- 
pressed by  it  all,  for  he  realized  the  fascination  that 
underlay  all  this  unreal  reality  and  garish  activity — the 
vision  of  the  play-actor  that  reaches  beyond  it  all  to 
that  waiting  audience  of  millions;  that  great  eager 
audience  expectant  always  of  entertainment,  and  vastly 


THE   SHOW   CITY  407 

capable  of  appreciation.  MacAllister  realized  what  a 
spur  it  must  be  to  talent,  and  what  an  allure  to  ambi- 
tion. It  was  that  vision  made  the  play-actor's  life  pos- 
sible ;  relieved  monotony  and  ennui. 

And  Marie,  this  new  Marie  with  whom  he  had  been 
making  acquaintance  during  the  last  two  weeks,  had 
recuperative  force,  and  MacAllister  knew  that  back  of 
all  recuperative  force  there  is  ambition.  He  was 
afraid  of  this  new  Marie  as  revealed  to  him  through 
her  letter  to  Clare.  This  was  the  same  girl  who  had 
struggled  against  odds  in  Paris,  only  grown  into  a 
woman  with  a  mantle  of  desolation  drawn  about  her. 
She  looked  out  upon  life  coolly.  She  was  quite  capable 
of  judging  him  and  finding  him  wanting. 

MacAllister  had  traveled  a  long  road  since  the  day 
he  had  told  Marie  that  she  was  "a  stranger"  to  him, 
and  that  his  love  was  dead.  His  anger  had  melted 
quickly  in  the  hot  furnace  of  regret  and  desire.  He 
knew  now  that,  when  he  had  walked  the  streets  of 
New  York  in  search  of  her  he  was  held  by  a  blind 
craving  for  her;  the  simple  primitive  demand  that 
would  have  taken  her  from  Mendall,  from  any  man, 
and,  yellow  or  white,  Indian  or  Scotchwoman,  would 
have  made  her  his  own.  It  had  been  that — a  blind  un- 
reasoning desire  commingled  with  the  fear  that  she 
had  taken  her  own  life,  passed  beyond  his  reach  for- 
ever. 

He  had  come  back  to  Laclasse  certain  of  it,  and  had 
been  met  by  a  relief  that  had  been  almost  too  much 
for  him.    He  had  not  been  deciding  anything  when  he 


408  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

sat  crimson- faced  before  Freda;  he  had  decided  long 
ago ;  he  meant  to  travel  to  Marie  by  the  first  train  that 
would  take  him.  But  the  Marie  Freda  had  revealed 
to  him  had  made  him  uneasy — more  than  uneasy.  He 
had  not  doubted  for  a  moment  that  the  girl  who  had 
knelt  to  kiss  his  hand  would  come  into  his  arms  as 
soon  as  he  opened  them  to  her.  But  the  woman  who, 
when  refused  his  love,  had  surmounted  her  difficulties 
and  had  chosen  her  future,  had  the  same  spirit  that 
was  revealed  in  Freda  and  so  astonishingly  in  Mrs. 
Mendall;  the  new  spirit  in  woman  that  MacAllister 
called  "a  bit  of  the  superwoman.,,  The  spirit  that 
turns  so  quickly  to  activity  and  independence  for  com- 
fort— and  finds  it.  Not  only  finds  comfort,  but  an 
absorbing  interest  as  well,  and  a  certain  critical  and 
unimpulsive  attitude  toward  marriage. 

Unless  Freda  was  right,  unless  the  Indian  woman 
was  the  stronger  in  Marie,  the  vision  that  takes  hold 
on  the  play-actor  might  rule  her.  Freda  had  said, 
"The  time  will  come  when  you  will  bless  that  golden 
streak  of  hers."  MacAllister  had  come  by  degrees  to 
count  upon  Marie's  inheritance  as  his  best  friend. 


LIX 

"if  ye'll  only  have  it  so" 

BEFORE  six  o'clock  MacAllister  went  to  the  gate- 
way through  which  he  had  been  told  the  return- 
ing automobile  loads  of  players  would  "turn  in.,, 
There  was  a  live-oak  near  the  gateway;  MacAllister 
stood  in  its  shade,  waiting.  Half  a  dozen  automobiles 
came  in  while  he  waited,  discharging  their  loads  a 
short  distance  away,  at  one  of  the  long  rows  of  dress- 
ing-rooms. 

A  motley  crew  they  were,  men  and  women  with 
their  make-up  still  upon  them,  most  of  them  dusty 
from  a  long  ride,  and  all  of  them  evidently  intent  on 
getting  out  of  costume  as  soon  as  possible.  The  five 
automobile  loads  which  composed  Marie's  party  were 
the  last  to  come  in,  a  troop  of  stage  Indians,  squaws 
and  cowboys.  Some  of  the  women  had  removed  their 
make-up,  but  not  their  squaw  garb. 

MacAllister  discovered  Marie  instantly.  She  sat  on 
a  front  seat  beside  the  director,  a  big  Indian  seated  on 
the  floor  of  the  car  at  her  feet.  Her  squaw  dress  was 
of  the  gaudiest,  profusely  beaded  and  fringed,  and  her 
two  long  braids  of  hair  crossed  her  bosom  and  lay 
coiled  in  her  lap.     She  had  removed  her  make-up; 

409 


410  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

under  the  hood  of  the  automobile  she  looked  black- 
haired,  creamy-skinned,  wide-lidded,  the  Marie  of 
MacAllister's  recollection  in  a  garb  that  became  her 
even  better  than  swathings  of  satin.  MacAllister's 
heart  leapt  at  sight  of  her,  his  ears  drumming  queerly. 

The  two  foremost  automobiles  had  not  cleared  yet, 
and  this  one  stopped  beneath  the  oak  to  discharge  its 
load,  within  a  few  feet  of  MacAllister.  The  players 
scrambled  out,  surrounding  him :  Indian  warriors  car- 
rying their  feather  head-dresses  over  their  arms,  and 
three  squaws  who  sprang  out  of  the  tonneau  unas- 
sisted. 

But  not  Marie.  The  regal  that  MacAllister  had  so 
often  marked  in  her  was  never  more  apparent  than  at 
this  moment.  She  kept  her  seat  until  helped  down  by 
the  director,  standing  quietly  while  the  stir  about  her 
cleared,  listening  meantime  to  some  directions  of  his, 
smiling  a  little  at  him,  the  slow  lifting  and  lowering 
of  her  lashes  that  MacAllister  remembered  so  well. 
How  often  he  had  seen  her  look  in  that  way  when  she 
was  "charming  Laclasse!"  She  meant  to  succeed  in 
this  new  environment,  just  as  she  had  succeeded  in 
Laclasse.  And  while  she  smiled  faintly  and  listened 
gravely  the  sun  worked  the  usual  wonder,  turned  her 
hair  golden.  She  was  within  reach  of  his  arm,  almost, 
and  yet  unconscious  of  his  presence. 

With  the  hot  sense  of  being  supplanted,  MacAllister 
watched  the  attentions  that  Marie  had  already  cap- 
tured, the  muscular  cowboy  and  burly  Indian  who 
hung  back,  waiting  for  the  director  to  release  her,  and 


"IF   YE'LL   ONLY   HAVE   IT    SO"      411 

when  she  turned  to  follow  the  hurrying  crowd  of  play- 
ers, attached  themselves  to  her,  one  on  either  side.  As 
he  watched  her  easy  movements  and  saw  the  bent 
heads  of  the  two  men,  MacAllister  had  the  unen- 
durable feeling  that  Marie  was  walking  away,  out  of 
his  life,  and  not  alone. 

The  few  strides  that  brought  him  within  arms' 
length  were  involuntary,  the  haste  of  the  man  who 
grasps  at  something  which  is  escaping.  He  touched 
her  shoulder:  "Marie — ?" 

She  stopped  under  his  voice  and  touch  as  if  turned 
to  stone,  so  sudden  a  pause  that  the  two  men  went  on 
for  a  pace  or  two  before  turning.  They  saw  then 
what  MacAllister  could  not  see,  the  sudden  wild  lift 
of  her  brows  and  the  quiver  that  crossed  her  face, 
leaving  it  like  marble,  the  chiseled  stillness  of  feature 
MacAllister  saw  when  he  faced  her.  It  was  her  eyes 
only  that  moved. 

"I've  come  for  ye,  Marie — I  want  ye." 

MacAllister  did  not  know  why  he  spoke  with  the 
accustomed  air  of  possession.  It  was  purely  involun- 
tary; possibly  because  of  the  two  men  who  were  wait- 
ing ;  possibly  merely  habit. 

Marie  said  nothing.  She  looked  at  him,  that  steady, 
unwinking,  yellow  gaze  of  hers,  slowly  shifted  her 
gaze  to  his  lips,  to  his  throat,  and  his  broad  chest — a 
strange,  consuming  look.  Then  she  stood  with  eyes 
lowered,  without  movement  or  answer. 

"Will  ye  come,  dear?"  MacAllister  asked. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  she  said  low  but  clearly. 


412  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

It  was  going  to  be  a  struggle  then,  as  he  had  feared. 
MacAllister  squared  his  shoulders  and  looked  about 
him,  at  the  waiting  men,  at  the  players  who  hurried 
by  them,  seclusion  nowhere — except  on  the  hillside. 

"We  can't  talk  here,"  he  said  briefly.  "Come  over 
yonder  with  me — to  the  hill." 

Marie  turned  without  a  glance  at  the  two  men  and 
walked  with  him  across  the  two  or  three  hundred  feet 
of  level.  MacAllister  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  her, 
but  Marie  looked  straight  ahead.  Neither  of  them 
said  a  word.  When  his  hand  touched  her,  offering 
help,  she  drew  away,  climbing  more  swiftly  than  he 
the  incline  that  brought  them  beneath  an  oak,  a  shelter 
from  those  who  might  be  looking.  She  stood,  backed 
against  its  twisted  trunk,  facing  him,  an  attitude  sug- 
gestive of  defense. 

MacAllister  had  gained  control  of  himself.  He  had 
cooled  as  he  always  did  in  a  crisis.  He  realized  that 
in  those  three  weeks  Marie  had  traveled  as  long  a 
road  as  he  had.  He  had  studied  her  face  keenly, 
noting  the  changes  in  her.  This  was  an  older  and  a 
graver  woman  who  had  lost  all  trace  of  girlish  inde- 
cision, lips  compressed,  cheeks  less  rounded,  brows 
thoughtful.  And  wrapping  her  from  brow  to  feet  was 
an  atmosphere  of  stillness.  He  realized  what  it  was 
Clare  had  meant  when  she  said  that  Marie  gave  her  the 
impression  of  "utter  desolation." 

She  looked  at  him  gravely,  steadily,  and  without  a 
word. 

"Marie,  I've  come  first  of  all  to  beg  yer  forgive- 


(  t  <  i 


"IF   YE'LL   ONLY   HAVE   IT    SO"      413 

ness,"  MacAllister  said  simply,  "and,  next,  to  tell  ye 
that  I  did  not  know  my  own  heart  when  I  said  my 
love  was  dead.  .  .  .  Dear,  ye' re  the  world  to  me. 
I  found  that  out  when  I  thought  ye  were  gone  for- 
ever. I  thought  that  in  yer  despair  ye  had  gone  with 
Carl  Mendall,  and  I  knew,  if  when  out  of  yer  mind 
ye  had  done  such  a  thing,  there  was  a  greater  despair 
in  store  for  ye.  I  went  to  New  York  just  so  soon  as 
Mrs.  Mendall  told  me,  and  for  a  week  I  searched  for 
ye  with  wretchedness  in  my  heart.  'Twas  then  I  knew 
I  loved  ye;  that  so  long  as  I  lived  I'd  love  ye.  .  .  . 
And  when  I  found  Mendall  it  was  only  to  learn  that 
ye  had  gone — I  didn't  know  where.  I  came  back  to 
Laclasse  with  the  certainty  that  I'd  never  see  ye  alive 
again.  'Twas  Freda  told  me  ye  were  safe — Clare  had 
told  her.  Then  I  came  here.  .  .  .  It's  been  three 
weeks  of  such  misery  as  I've  never  known  in  my  life, 
though  once  before  I  thought  I'd  touched  bottom. 
.  .  .  But  it's  ended,  now,  dear — if  ye'll  only  have 
it  so." 

Marie's  eyes  had  widened  as  she  listened,  her  lips 
parting,  to  draw  in  his  speech  as  it  were.  But  at  his 
conclusion  they  set  again.  She  looked  down  at  her 
moccasined  feet.  "You  no  longer  fear  the  Indian, 
then?  Or  the  deeds  of  my  mother  and  my  grand- 
mother?" She  touched  her  hair,  her  eyes  and  her 
cheek,  looking  at  him  again.  "The  tiger's  coat  does 
not  frighten  you,  then,  Monsieur?" 

"No.  I  want  ye  as  ye  are.  I'm  afraid  of  nothing, 
Marie." 


414  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

She  was  silent,  immobile. 

"I  am  not  blaming  ye  for  yer  anger,"  MacAllister 
said. 

"I  am  not  angry.  I  have  never  been  angry  with 
you,  and  I  never  shall  be." 

"Is  it  pride  that  stands  in  the  way,  then,  dear?" 

"What  am  I,  that  I  should  be  proud?"  Marie  an- 
swered too  evenly  for  bitterness. 

MacAllister  studied  her  withdrawn,  unapproachable 
air,  realizing  that  she  was  neither  angry  nor  bitter.  It 
could  be  only  the  one  thing. 

He  lost  his  flush.  "Don't  ye  love  me  any  longer?" 
he  asked,  grown  suddenly  husky.  "That's  the  question 
I  should  have  asked  first  thing.  It's  the  only  thing 
that  matters  between  us  now." 

Marie  shrank.  "Do  not  make  me  hurt  you,  Mon- 
sieur— " 

"Answer  my  question!"  MacAllister  said  passion- 
ately. "Why  do  ye  torture  me?  .  .  .  Do  ye  love 
me,  or  do  ye  not  ?" 

"I  do  not  know!"  Marie  answered,  her  voice  sud- 
denly sharp  and  strained.  "That  is  why  I  have  been 
silent.  I  would  rather  die  than  hurt  you — that  I  know. 
The  moment  I  heard  your  voice  I  knew  I  must  hurt 
you,  and  it  was  almost  more  than  I  could  bear.  .  .  . 
Monsieur,  I  do  not  know  how  to  explain  myself.  Per- 
haps there  is  still  in  me  the  love  that  went  on  its  knees 
to  you.  I  do  not  know.  But  I  think  that  in  these 
weeks  that  woman  has  died  from  grief  and  longing, 
and  the  other  thing  has  grown.    I  had  it  in  me  those 


"IF    YE'LL   ONLY    HAVE    IT    SO"      415 

years  when  I  danced  in  Paris  and  fought  my  way  inch 
by  inch — the  woman  who  wished  to  belong  to  no  one; 
who  wished  to  climb  by  her  own  efforts  to  success. 
.  .  .  Monsieur,  it  has  been  the  Indian  girl  who  has 
lain  dying.  I  am  more  white  than  Indian.  Perhaps 
there  is  in  me  a  pride  that  would  make  of  myself  some- 
thing more  than  the  yellow  cat  that  crawled  starving 
and  beseeching  to  your  door.  Perhaps  I  wish  to  give 
a  child  something  in  myself  of  which  ;t  may  be  proud 
— perhaps  that  is  the  urge  I  feel.  I  can  not  explain 
myself.  I  know  only  that  should  I  go  with  you,  it 
would  be  with  shame  in  my  heart.'*  There  were  tears 
in  her  voice  when  she  finished. 

It  was  his  fear  realized.  MacAllister  assimilated  it, 
gaged  it,  standing  speechless  until  it  grew  into  a  large 
fact.  "It's  the  allure  of  that  place  down  there  has 
laid  hold  on  ye,"  he  said  bitterly. 

Marie  looked  down  at  the  show  city,  her  brows 
drawn.  "It  has  a  future  for  me,  Monsieur — if  I  work 
very  hard,  I  think  I  may  succeed — that  is  all  I  see  in 
it.  .  .  .  And  yet — that  is  not  all,"  she  added  slowly. 
"I  know  that  I  have  talent.  To  feel  one's  self  a  power  to 
hold  a  multitude — there  is  fascination  in  that.  .  .  . 
You  wished  the  power  of  money — I  am  of  your 
blood." 

It  was  like  having  his  own  weapon  turned  upon  him 
by  a  hand  stronger  than  his  own.  But  there  was  plenty 
of  will  in  MacAllister  for  the  struggle.  "Come  back 
with  me,  back  to  Laclasse,  and  give  the  love,  that  I 
can't  believe  is  dead,  a  chance.     Do  that  for  me, 


416  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

Marie?  ...  If  ye  find  then  it  is  gone  completely, 
ye  shall  have  my  help  to  become  whatever  ye  wish.  I 
give  ye  my  word  of  honor." 

Marie  stumbled  over  the  hard  refusal.  "Monsieur 
— I  believe  you  would — but.  .  .  .  Oh,  Monsieur,  I 
can  not!  What  I  do  I  must  do  quite  by  myself !  .  .  . 
No,  I  will  not,"  she  added  with  greater  firmness. 

"I'll  not  give  ye  up,  and  I'll  not  leave  ye  here  alone !" 
MacAllister  declared  more  hotly.  "I'll  stay  here — on 
yer  very  door-step !" 

Marie's  eyes  narrowed,  the  look  Carl  Mendall  knew 
well.  "I  think  not,  Monsieur.  I  would  go  in  a  night 
— as  I  did  from  Laclasse." 

"Will  ye  tell  me  what  it  is  ye'd  have  me  do,  then?" 
MacAllister  asked  bitingly. 

Marie  met  his  demand  with  one  of  her  sudden 
changes  to  gentleness.  "Go  back  to  your  home,  Mon- 
sieur— and  leave  me  to  myself.     I  wish  to  be  alone." 

"To  turn  yer  heart  to  some  boy  like  that  bedizened 
fool  that  sat  at  yer  feet  down  there !" 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  "I  know  the  hon- 
esty of  my  purpose — I  do  not  deserve  that." 

MacAllister's  look  changed.  "Oh,  Marie,  child — 
it's  just  that  I  want  ye  so !  It's  like  having  food  and 
water  set  just  beyond  my  reach — when  I'm  famished 
for  them  both.  I  can't  bear  to  endure  what  my  own 
anger  has  brought  on  me.  I've  almost  killed  the  love 
ye  offered  me  in  such  full  measure.  I  know  that,  and 
that  it's  like  never  to  return  to  me.  It  seems  I've 
simply  got  to  wait  yer  own  time — though  God  knows 


"IF    YE'LL   ONLY    HAVE    IT    SO"      417 

how  ?'  He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  the  famil- 
iar caress.    "If  ye  tell  me  to  go,  I'll  go." 

He  felt  her  tremble  under  his  hands,  and  the  sign 
of  wavering  and  the  touch  of  her  were  too  much.  He 
caught  her  to  him,  and  as  passion  gripped  him  and 
with  it  the  determination  to  conquer,  he  kissed  her,  as 
on  the  night  of  their  engagement,  his  strength  against 
her  struggle  to  escape — until  she  was  still. 

"Ye'll  come  now — "  he  said,  at  last,  when  he  was 
spent  and  breathless.  He  could  not  believe  that  the 
passion  that  had  conquered  her  once  before  would  not 
conquer  her  again. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Ye  love  me  still — I  know  it." 

"I  have  told  you  all  that  is  in  my  heart.  I  shall  not 
come  with  you." 

MacAUister  held  her  off  and  looked  at  her,  tear- 
stained  and  rumpled,  her  lips  red  from  his  kiss,  a  spot 
of  carmine  in  each  cheek.  But  her  eyes  under  her 
drawn  brows  were  indomitable. 

He  looked  at  her  long  and  steadily,  the  flush  fading 
from  his  face.  "Ye' re  actually  telling  me  to  leave  ye 
— and  go  down  there  .  .  .  back  to  my  empty  house 
in  Laclasse?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

MacAUister  let  her  go  so  abruptly  that  she  stag- 
gered, and,  turning  his  back  on  her,  looked  down  at 
his  rival,  the  show  city.  It  had  tempted  the  woman 
who  considers  and  weighs  chances,  the  Scotch  blood  in 
her.    ...    He  was  trying  to  think  how  he  might 


418  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

keep  a  little  hold ;  how  appeal  to  the  loving  girl  she  had 
once  shown  herself.  .  .  .  He  would  come  again — 
come  frequently — until  she  yielded.  .  .  .  But  if  the 
Indian  in  her,  the  girl  Freda  said  he  had  captured,  was 
dead.    ... 

He  turned  around  with  a  plea  on  his  lips,  and  was 
met  by  all  the  confutation  there  can  be  in  outward 
seeming.  Marie  had  dropped  to  the  ground  and  sat 
With  knees  embraced,  her  hair  in  strands  across  her 
brow,  her  chin  heavy,  her  cheek-bones  brought  into 
relief;  a  squaw,  sad-eyed,  immobile,  the  broodingly 
patient  look  of  the  primitive  woman,  the  animal- 
mother  look. 

The  impression  MacAllister  received  was  so  power- 
ful that  it  silenced  his  plea.  He  stared  at  her.  "I  be- 
lieve— at  heart — ye're.  simply  the  Indian  ye  look  this 
minute,"  he  said  slowly.  "The  woman  I've  been 
struggling  with  this  last  hour  is  naught  but  my  double. 
Freda's  right:  'twas  the  inheritance  yer  mother  gave 
ye,  I  captured,  and  it's  that  will  bring  ye  back  to  me 
— if  it's  the  strongest  in  ye.  .  .  .  I'll  not  trouble 
ye — I'll  just  leave  ye  to  find  yer  own  heart.  I  can 
wait."  And  without  further  farewell,  he  turned  and 
went  down  the  hill. 

Marie  watched  him  go;  lifted  to  her  knees  that  she 
might  see  better,  head  craned,  eyes  narrowed  and  in- 
tent, motionless — until  his  automobile  had  carried  him 
out  of  sight.  Then  she  dropped  forward  and  lay  with 
her  face  against  her  folded  arms,  quite  still — until  the 
dusk  came. 


LX 

JUST  ALL  WOMAN 

IT  was  April  of  the  following  year,  a  mildly  tearful 
night  except  when  stirred  by  gusts  of  heavy  weep- 
ing, sweet  with  the  scent  of  fresh  earth  and  young 
grass  and  swelling  buds.  The  prairie  state  was  again 
shyly  donning  its  underslip  of  pale  green,  now  smiling 
at  thought  of  fruitful  summer,  now  weeping  over  the 
frozen  winter,  now  warm,  now  chill,  like  a  youthful 
woman  who  is  laying  aside  her  widow's  weeds. 

MacAllister  had  come  in  from  the  chill  to  sit  beside 
his  library  fire.  He  was  listening  now  to  the  patter  of 
the  rain  on  the  tiling  of  the  porch — as  on  the  night,  a 
year  ago,  when  the  door  of  his  house  and  the  door  of 
his  heart  had  opened  to  Marie.  Only  it  was  an  added 
year  of  experience  that  sat  with  him  now  and  not 
Frederick  Bagsby.  And  it  was  the  Chinaman  and  not 
Townley  who  came  and  went  softly,  who  drew  the 
shades  and  lowered  the  lights  preparatory  to  the  night, 
who  shuffled  about  lightly  with  a  slanting  glance  al- 
ways for  the  gloomy  man  beside  the  fire. 

MacAllister  neither  heard  nor  saw  him.  His  pipe 
had  lost  all  but  the  warmth  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
gave  it,  for  he  had  forgotten  it  also.    He  was  thinking 

419 


420  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

of  the  past  nine  months,  the  unsatisfactory  background 
to  the  helpless,  desperate  resolve  he  had  brought  in 
with  him  out  of  the  wet  and  chill. 

They  had  brought  the  fulness  of  life  to  all  who 
were  nearest  to  him  in  interest :  to  Margaret  Mendall 
a  son  who  clung  to  her  breast  with  warm  lips,  an  eager, 
healthy,  demanding  morsel,  with  small  fists  already 
opening  and  closing  on  life,  beating  the  air  in  eagerness 
for  the  strife,  and  also  the  breast  from  which  he  drew 
strength — a  man  of  the  future;  to  Carl  Mendall  the 
winter  had  brought  a  measure  of  success — he  was  win- 
ning recognition ;  to  Clare  Bagsby  the  husband  of  her 
choice  and  already  the  first  hope  of  motherhood;  to 
Freda  O'Rourke — devoted  friend  and  determinedly 
cheerful  predictor  of  his  future — days  so  full  of  work 
and  interest  that  in  her  presence  depression  covered  its 
face  in  shame;  and  to  Marie,  the  woman  whom  he 
loved,  the  promise,  certainly,  of  a  successful  career. 

In  a  money  way,  MacAllister  had  prospered  during 
those  nine  months.  Though  he  had  not  made  the 
many  additional  thousands  a  munition  plant  would 
have  brought  him,  the  returns  from  his  Iron  Works 
had  satisfied  him.  He  had  kept  his  promise  to  Marie, 
and  Marie  meant  more  to  him  than  anything  else.  As 
he  said  to  Bagsby,  "There's  something  I  want  a  deal 
more  than  I  want  money,  Fred,  and  that's  the  girl  out 
there  in  California  who's  bent  on  going  her  own  way. 
...  If  ever  this  country  needs  ammunition,  which 
I  hope  it'll  not,  my  buildings  are  there — I  can  make  a 
munition  plant  of  them  at  short  notice.    I  rebuilt  with 


JUST   ALL   WOMAN  421 

that  in  mind.  I'm  for  this  'preparedness'  movement 
— if  I'm  needed,  I'll  be  ready." 

His  attitude  toward  the  conspirators  who  had 
wrecked  his  plant  was  patiently  implacable.  He  held 
in  his  hands  the  proof  of  Mortola's  guilt  and  of  Town- 
ley's  complicity,  and  he  had  also  ferreted  out  the  group 
of  Austrian  laborers  who  had  given  them  assistance. 
Mortola  was  held  on  a  charge  that  MacAllister  in- 
tended should  imprison  him  for  a  long  term  of  years. 
The  federal  authorities  had  hunted  Townley  down, 
and,  as  it  seemed  likely  that  he  would  turn  evidence 
and  furnish  the  government  with  valuable  informa- 
tion, he  was  carefully  guarded.  In  fact,  the  whole 
matter  had  come  under  federal  jurisdiction,  and  Mac- 
Allister was  awaiting  the  outcome,  together  with 
others  who  had  suffered  as  he  had.  MacAllister  had 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that,  whatever  the  find- 
ings of  the  federal  authorities  might  be,  Mortola  could 
not  escape  him.  And  between  Andrew  Kraup  and 
himself  it  was  "silence  for  silence,"  as  Kraup  had  said; 
Kraup's  name  had  not  been  brought  into  the  matter, 
and  Marie's  history  had  not  been  aired.  In  fact,  their 
battle  had  served  to  establish  a  more  friendly  feeling. 
In  spite  of  their  business  rivalry  they  met  without 
rancor,  with  even  a  dryly  humorous  appreciation  of 
each  other. 

The  truth  was  that  MacAllister  took  little  interest 
in  any  one  but  Marie,  and  had  little  thought  of  any- 
thing but  the  winning  of  Marie.  And  the  nine  months 
of  endeavor  had  brought  him  only  a  steadily  declining 


422  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

hope.  He  was  living  with  the  conviction  that  Marie 
was  moving  farther  and  farther  away  from  him.  The 
Indian  play  in  which  she  had  had  only  a  small  part 
had  visited  Laclasse  and  passed  on  into  the  smaller 
towns.  Another  play  in  which  she  had  a  secondary 
part  had  also  been  shown.  Throughout  the  autumn 
she  had  been  regularly  employed,  her  letters  to  Clare 
had  told  him  that.  And  to-night  MacAllister  had  come 
from  an  hour  and  a  half's  view  of  Maria  de  la  Guarda, 
not  a  motion-picture  star  as  yet — she  still  played  a  sec- 
ondary part — but  so  certainly  destined  to  be  one  that 
the  hope  to  which  he  had  clung  died.  He  had  come 
back  to  his  house  depressed  to  the  point  of  desperation. 

MacAllister  had  held  to  his  purpose  until  Christmas 
time — he  had  left  Marie  alone  to  discover  herself. 
Then  endurance  broke,  and  he  had  written  out  his 
heart  to  her,  all  its  longing,  its  unalterable  desire,  its 
worship,  page  upon  page  of  it.  And  her  answer  had 
come  in  time,  elusive  of  the  love  his  burning  pen  had 
tried  to  fasten  upon  her,  quick  with  interest  for  all 
that  concerned  him,  a  perfectly  frank  expression  of 
friendly  interest  that  was  as  free  as  air  in  its  inde- 
pendence. 

But  he  had  not  been  daunted.  He  had  continued  to 
write,  a  diary  of  his  thoughts  filled  out  and  quickened 
by  love.  Being  no  self-analyst,  MacAllister  had  not 
realized  the  extent  of  his  self -revelation,  of  what  his 
letters  had  carried  to  Marie.  He  did  not  know  that 
he  had  stolen  from  Freda's  portion  and  given  to  Marie 


JUST   ALL   WOMAN  423 

a  friendship  glorified  by  the  passion  that  peoples  the 
universe. 

But  Freda  knew.  "It's  as  it  should  be  with  him/' 
she  told  Mrs.  Mendall,  to  whom  she  confided  most  of 
her  thoughts.  "Alex  and  I  will  always  be  friends,  but 
my  day  is  really  past.  I  suppose  Alex  is  right  when 
he  says  that  the  maternal  is  the  biggest  part  of  me.  I 
suppose,  really,  that  what  I  have  been  doing  these  last 
six  years  is  mothering  Alex.  It's  a  good  thing  for 
me  that  the  world  is  full  of  creatures  that  need  moth- 
ering— I  know  I  can't  keep  my  hands  off  that  baby  of 
yours,  Margaret.  You'll  have  to  give  me  a  half  inter- 
est in  him  or  I'll  be  adopting  a  baby  of  my  own."  She 
spoke  half  sadly,  half  humorously.  Strangely  enough, 
the  two  women,  though  so  unlike,  had  become  fast 
friends.    They  took  genuine  pleasure  in  each  other. 

"I've  often  told  you  that  my  baby  was  half  yours," 
Mrs.  Mendall  had  answered  earnestly.  "Where  would 
we  either  of  us  be  but  for  you?  Carl  doesn't  really 
want  us — there  isn't  a  bit  of  the  paternal  in  him — and 
if  ever  anything  happens  to  me  I  want  my  baby  left  to 
your  care.    I  have  often  told  you  that." 

"Very  well,"  Freda  said,  "we'll  rear  him  together. 
I  guess  that's  a  good  enough  future  for  me.  ...  I 
believe  that,  in  time,  Marie  will  justify  my  faith  in 
her,  but  I  confess  that  at  present  it  looks  rather  hope- 
less. She  is  showing  herself  more  ambitious  and  more 
determined  that  I  thought  she  could  be.  And  she  has 
real  talent  for  what  she  is  doing.    She  has  more  Span- 


424  THE   TIGER'S    COAT 

ish  and  more  Scotch  blood  in  her  than  I  thought  she 
had."  Freda  had  been  impressed  by  Marie's  acting. 
The  girl  was  certain  to  win  her  way,  and  Freda  knew 
how  tremendous  a  hold  success  may  have  upon  a 
woman.  How  often  she  herself  had  longed  for  talent 
enough  to  walk  out  into  the  world  and  succeed ! 

MacAllister  was  hopeless  enough  over  the  situation. 
He  wanted  Marie,  and  she  appeared  to  be  moving 
steadily  and  victoriously  away  from  him.  She  an- 
swered his  letters,  wrote  of  her  almost  overwhelming 
difficulties  and  her  growing  triumphs  and  her  settled 
determination  to  succeed,  but  of  love  not  a  word.  Her 
letters  were  at  times  facile,  at  others  brief,  Latin  some- 
times in  their  volubility,  sometimes  Indian  in  their 
taciturnity,  just  the  thinking,  not  the  feeling  woman. 
And  he  was  giving  her  everything,  every  thought  and 
desire,  every  atom  of  himself.    It  was  cruel. 

That  night  MacAllister  had  seen  Marie  brought  so 
close  to  him  by  the  science  of  photo-play  that  he  had 
looked  directly  into  those  strange  animal  eyes  of  hers. 
Then  he  had  watched  her  in  the  arms  of  another, 
playing  superbly  the  loved  and  then  the  forsaken  girl. 
Seen  her  then  become  an  adventuress  who  coolly  used 
the  passions  of  men,  and  had  watched  the  "star,"  the 
"good  woman"  of  the  play,  triumph  over  her. 

"It's  just  a  play,"  he  told  himself,  while  burning 
over  it.    "It's  naught  but  a  play." 

But  the  thing  had  hurt  savagely.  And  he  was  so 
helpless.  He  had  come  away  despairing  to  the  point 
of  desperation.    Freda's  wisdom  had  counseled  him  to 


JUST   ALL   WOMAN  425 

wait,  but  that  was  beyond  him.  In  the  morning  he 
meant  to  go  to  Marie  for  a  last  appeal.  He  had  no 
hope ;  it  would  be  time  wasted ;  but  sit  still  and  wait  he 
could  not ! 

That  was  the  resolve  over  which  Mac  Alii  ster  was 
brooding,  with  lips  tight  set  and  eyes  on  the  fire,  ob- 
livious of  the  Chinaman's  light  movements  and  side- 
long glances,  conscious  only  of  the  gusty  weeping  with- 
out which  had  now  settled  into  a  steady  deluge  of 
tears. 

It  was  the  opening  of  the  front  door,  the  China- 
man's last  move,  that  reminded  MacAllister  of  the 
man's  presence  and  that  it  was  growing  late.  He 
looked  up  with  the  photo-play  vision  of  Marie  still  in 
his  eyes,  looked  through  dimly  lighted  space  into  the 
hall — at  the  queer  ducking  figure  of  the  Chinaman  and 
beyond  it  at  a  form  that  was  gradually  emerging  from 
the  shadows  like  a  film-vision,  a  figure  darkly  cloaked 
and  with  a  vague  blot  slowly  molding  into  features: 
cheeks  white,  lips  full,  eyes  wide  apart  and  fixed  upon 
his    .    .    .    Marie! 

MacAllister  rose  stiffly,  grasped  at  the  table,  and 
bending  forward  stared  at  the  vision.  She  came  for- 
ward a  little,  emerged  somewhat  more,  gaining  reality, 
but  not  until  her  voice,  soft  and  thick,  cut  across  his 
bemused  senses  did  MacAllister  grasp  the  actuality. 

"Monsieur—?" 

Many  times  in  the. last  months  MacAllister  had 
watched  Marie's  lips  frame  voiceless  words  and  seen 
gestures  and  movements  that  were  wrapped  in  the 


426  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

weird  stillness  that  emphasized  unbridgable  space.  But 
that  soft  warm  cadence! 

"Marie—?    .    .    .    Marie!" 

The  hands  he  took  were  cold  and  wet  and  trembling, 
as  on  that  first  night,  and  perhaps  because  of  the  odd 
reversion  to  a  scene  once  enacted  to  which  in  intense 
excitement  the  brain  is  subject,  Marie's  answer  was 
the  same  as  on  that  first  night :  "Monsieur,  I  come  to 
you  through  the  rain — " 

And  as  in  the  height  of  joy  or  in  the  depths  of  grief 
our  speech  is  frequently  prosaic,  MacAllister  said, 
"Ye'll  just  come  in  to  the  fire,  Marie." 

But,  after  all,  it  is  inflection  that  gives  meaning  to 
words,  and  touch  that  vivifies  love,  and  reverence  that 
hallows  it.  MacAllister  clung  to  her  cold  hands  like 
one  drowning,  held  them  to  his  breast  and  then  to 
his  lips. 

"Ye'll  come  in — ye'll  just  come  in  and  get  warm," 
he  repeated  breathlessly. 

And  with  swift  instinct  the  Chinaman  knew  his  part. 
He  shuffled  off,  cast  a  log  and  an  armful  of  tinder  on 
the  smoldering  fire,  and  fled. 

It  blazed  high  as  MacAllister  led  her  in,  and  with 
the  same  spell  of  bewilderment  upon  him  rid  her  of 
her  wet  cloak  and  dripping  hat,  revealing  her  swathed 
in  black  but  with  a  knot  of  scarlet  at  her  breast  and 
wearing  her  heavy  crown  of  gold,  dry  and  warm  to 
his  touch. 

"Eh,  it's  not  so  bad — ye're  not  wet  through,"  he 
said,  not  knowing  as  yet  what  he  said. 


JUST   ALL   WOMAN  427 

"I  came  only  from  the  car,  Monsieur."  She  was 
constrained  still,  and  uncertain,  still  a  little  like  the 
stray  that  had  ventured  to  his  door  the  year  before. 

"It'll  be  yer  little  feet  then  that  are  wet." 

MacAllister  put  her  on  the  couch  and,  kneeling,  took 
off  her  shoes,  struggling  over  the  buttons  with  un- 
steady fingers,  murmuring  something  when  he  found 
her  stockings  dry.  Marie  looked  down  on  his  broad 
shoulders  and  powerful  neck  bent  to  her  service,  and 
the  look  of  uncertainty  left  her  face.  The  color  crept 
into  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  began  to  shine. 

But  her  feet  were  cold  like  her  hands,  and  Mac- 
Allister held  them  to  warm  them,  bent  then  to  kiss 
them,  and  suddenly  the  spell  of  awe  and  bewilderment 
that  held  him  broke.  He  lifted,  his  head  upflung,  and 
when  the  light  in  his  eyes  met  fairly  the  glow  in  hers 
his  arms  took  her,  drew  her  to  his  knees,  held  her 
bound. 

"Ye've  come  to  me  like  ye  came  in  the  beginning! 
Tell  me  what  brought  ye?  Tell  me  quick!  Before  I 
kiss  ye — before  I  go  clean  mad    .    .    .    Marie — ?" 

She  quivered  into  passion.  "It  was  your  letters — « 
they  made  me  love  you  a  thousand  times  more!  It 
was  that — and  the  contract.  They  wished  me  to  sign 
for  two  years.  I  would  be  a  leading  lady — I  would 
have  much  money — I  would  be  a  little  more  your 
equal — I  could  prove  then  that  my  tiger's  coat  covered 
a  woman  with  will  and  brains  and  talent,  that  I  was 
not  just  a  starving  yellow  cat.  I  meant  always  to 
come  to  you,  but  I  wished  first  to  accomplish.     But 


428  THE   TIGER'S   COAT 

for  two  long  years!  Hold  myself  away  from  you  for 
two  long  years !  I  could  not  do  it,  Monsieur.  /  could 
not!  And  suddenly  I  came  to  you.  And  when  I  be- 
gan to  come  I  could  not  stop.  The  station  and  the 
rain,  Monsieur  1  It  was  so  like  what  it  was  before!  I 
could  not  wait  till  morning — I  wished  only  just  you — " 

His  lips  on  hers  stopped  her  speech,  took  her  breath 
and  clung  to  her,  and  then  her  arms  circled  him.  It 
was  the  same  still  ecstasy  that  had  held  them  in  the 
beginning,  only  deepened  and  heightened  by  a  com- 
pleter understanding.  .  .  .  And  afterward,  when 
the  fire  had  dropped  low  and  she  sat  with  head  against 
his  breast,  MacAllister  asked  again  for  the  assurance 
love  is  never  weary  of  hearing: 

"Tell  me  now  what  is  in  yer  heart,  Marie  ?" 

"Just  love,"  she  said.  "It  has  always  been  love  that 
was  in  my  heart,  and  never  more  so  than  in  these 
months  when  I  wished  to  be  more  worthy.  I  am  just 
only  that  loving  Indian  girl  that  has  belonged  to  you 
always,  Monsieur." 

He  kissed  her  hair.  "Yes,  just  all  woman,  and 
crowned  with  gold!"  he  said  deeply.  "We'll  travel 
together  bravely,  we  two  made  one — through  rain  or 
sunshine,  to  the  very  end." 


THE   END 


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mi  0  8  1998 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  40m,  3/78  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


MmMmmy  LIBRAR,ES 

£05710^353 


M18196 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


WELL'S 

•      K.Ml.k. 


